


The Victor's Heir

by RedBlazer



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, As in incredibly slow burn, BAMF Stiles, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Genius Isaac, Healers, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Muttations, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Parents as Guardians, Slow Build, So slow someone probably could just wait for it to be summer again before they get warm, Victors, Were-Creatures, Wolves, basically everyone is a BAMF, self inflicted wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 78,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On this, the Seventy-fifth anniversary of the end of the Great Rebellion and the beginning of the Hunger Games we remember the lives lost all across Panem in senseless violence." President Silver says as he pulls a sealed envelope from his pocket and breaks the seal with a flick of his thumb. "It is in recognition of this loss every 25 years that we hold a Quarter Quell." His hands shake for a moment as he pulls the card from the envelope and holds it up to his eyes.</p><p>Stiles looks over as a weight lands on his shoulder. His father is squeezing tightly at Stiles, enraptured in what is happening on the screen before him.</p><p>"As a reminder to the rebels that relation to those who show loyalty to the Capitol is no guarantee of safety, the male and female tributes reaped will be the heirs of those victors who have already proven their loyalty to Capitol through their actions in the Hunger Games."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right now this chapter is un-betaed. All mistakes are my own! But I have read through it about 20 times on my own, and read it aloud to my beautiful Beta.
> 
> I hope to post 1 chapter per week perhaps on Wednesday. But I won't nail down a schedule until I know what I have going on at work.
> 
> Heed this warning: This fic is full of spoilers for The Hunger Games. If you haven't read the books or seen the movie, and you don't want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn't read this. Because it will totally spoil a bunch of that awesome series for you. If you're feeling adventurous and decide that you want to go ahead and read my fic with my background, the Hunger Games wikipedia entry can be incredibly informing about the background of the world this story takes place in. There's a lot of terminology in this fic that I took from The Hunger Games, so that could be confusing if you haven't read the books.
> 
> Side note (a few words about death in this fic): As this story takes place in the Hunger Games universe, I think it's important that there is a sense of danger towards Stiles and the rest of the tributes in the Games. That being said. People will be put into mortal peril over and over again. People will die. I can tell you right now that the Teen Wolf characters who die will not die in vain. There's a method to my madness here. The lives of these characters aren't something that I take for granted.
> 
> Katniss' story would not have been as powerful had she not gone through the loss that she went through over the course of the books. On that same note, I think that loyalty, love, and loss are the three things that this fic orbits around the most.
> 
> This story runs parallel to the events of The Hunger Games in many ways, but in no way does that mean that some characters I have drawn a parallel between will die as they might have in the books. There will be a complete divergence from the canon of The Hunger Games at a point very early in the Games!
> 
> Please just stick with me. At this point I am incredibly invested in this fic. I am already trying to suss out the sequel to this fic and The Victor's Heir draft isn't even half way done. I just hope that the worry that some characters will die is not going to put people off of this fic. Because I think we've all learned from Teen Wolf and from the Hunger Games that the death of a character is painful, but it can be used as a way to give the story more meaning.
> 
> Obviously I don't own The Hunger Games, or Teen Wolf. This is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head.
> 
> Now with fancy art by the lovely Derphale!!!
> 
> http://derphale.tumblr.com/tagged/hunger-games-au

Stiles' dad drinks to forget what went on in the Games. And Stiles sneaks below the radar. He collects the stories the that the people of District 12 have to tell inside volumes of pristine paper that his dad gets for him from somewhere in District 1. Stiles climbs under the wire fences lining the district and wanders around the woods collecting bullet casings and fossils. He trades down at the Hob for memories rather than food or alcohol.

If he can't live in a world without the Capitol and the Hunger Games, he'll fill his mind with the stories of people who lived before the rebellion. Though, that number is growing smaller every year. They were children during the rebellion, so their memories are as bloodstained as Stiles', but nonetheless there were no Games back then. Stiles thinks they were lucky. But he knows that he's lucky to be growing up in Victor's Village with his dad.

The cruel twist of the knife is that John killed for this place up on the hill. And if it weren't for that, Stiles would be heading down the mine next year instead of spending his days in the comfort that terror has bought them.

They each have their coping mechanisms.

It helps to focus on small things rather than the looming feeling of dread on the horizon, the announcement of whatever fresh hell the Capitol has planned for the Quarter Quell when it's revealed tonight to the districts. In the district, tensions are higher than usual. Parents hug their children to their sides and the kids themselves don't shriek with laughter nearly as often. Stiles watches the younger ones in school while they're out at recess and he's in class.

They play games like Kill the Career and Race to the Cornucopia. He recognizes it for what it is, in their own way they're training. They're taking in what they've seen on the screens of the Games and trying in their own way to put it to use. Today a little girl with red braids bursts out screaming in terror when she gets tagged out in the grubby yard next to the school. Her face scrunches up as she wails. The boy who tagged her runs off, wielding a stick over his head like a sword. A teacher runs up to the girl and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her away from the other kids.

It must be her first year. Stiles thinks she might be the daughter of the man who sells milk and cheese in town. Her shoes aren't full of holes like some of the other kids playing. So her name won't be in more than once this year. She's practically home free. But Stiles still knows how that feeling of helplessness can wrap around your heart and squeeze with cold strength.

"Stiles." A stern voice breaks him out of his trance as the kids outside make neat lines and walk back inside. Stiles looks up and sees Harris standing at the front of the classroom, pointing at a large map of Panem with its districts outlined clearly. "Earth to Mr. Stilinski. Care to tell me what the chief exports of District 12 are?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, rattling off the answer from memory. What does District 12 contribute to the Capitol besides the two children it sacrifices each year? Coal, natural gas, graphite, and whatever else it can pillage from the depleted land below their feet. Besides the square mileage of the district and the fact that this area used to be home to something called the Appalachian Mountains no one really knows much else about this place they call home.

After all, it's easier to control people when they're kept ignorant.

Harris moves on and it's a good thing that Stiles learned long ago to censor himself in school and anywhere outside his home. He would have ended up in trouble with someone way more important than Harris a long time ago if he hadn't. For a while, when Stiles was a kid that seemed like something his dad genuinely feared. Especially after his mom died. Back then it just seemed like Stiles' thoughts poured out of his brain and out into the air like water from a bucket with a hole in it.

The bell rings and Stiles is the first one to rise from his chair and make for the door. The small number of kids in the classroom takes their time. Stiles tries not to think too hard about the fact that last year when he had been 16, the whole room had been filled with the other kids in his grade. Now nearly half the class has given up on the grungy school and taken up their pickaxes. In theory the Peacekeepers should be shepherding them back into class, but more workers in the mines isn't something that the Capitol is going to discourage.

Besides, it's not like learning the same things over and over about the rebellion is going to do anything to help them down there. They have families that need taking care of. The Capitol may be sending his dad more money than they could ever need, Stiles thinks he would trade it all back in a heartbeat if it meant that he didn't have to hear his dad calling out in his sleep to a wife who died six years ago and for the forty children his dad has sent off to the Games from District 12 over the years.

Stiles walks up the lane to the hill where Victor's Village keeps watch over the rest of the district. Two lanes run parallel to each other, lined with 6 identical white houses on each side facing each other. Only the first house on either side shows any signs of life. The sooty air filters out most of the sunlight, forcing the district to light their lamps before the sun has even begun to set. Warm golden light pours through the windows of Stiles' house where his father's office is at the front of the house.

He should go home and check in to make sure his dad doesn't need anything. But today's the kind of day that nothing he does will be enough to help. Today President Silver will announce his plans for the Quarter Quell. It'll mean that in two months his dad will have to leave for the Capitol. John will depart with two tributes off to their first and last time in the arena. He'll be forced to make the victor's circuit of Capitol parties and events.

Stiles is fully capable of taking care of himself these days. His dad will still probably bribe two Peacekeepers to look in on him every day. They'll make sure he goes to school and stays out of trouble.

The world seems to be shaking off the last of winter from its shoulders. There's hardly anymore snow crunching under his feet as he sets his bag down at the door and sets off towards the woods that border the hill. Because there are only four people who live up here, it goes relatively unnoticed by Peacekeepers.

There's a patch of loose wire near the bottom of the fence that's easy enough to pry up with a stick and then shimmy under. This whole ordeal would be a lot more difficult if the fence was electrified like it was supposed to be. But the electrical grid can hardly handle having all of the screens on when there's a mandated broadcast. And besides, people are too afraid of the bears and the mountain lions that occasionally make their way close to the district to chance a trip beyond the fence.

It's both easier and harder to keep everything tucked up safe and sound inside his head. Sometimes it spills out all on its own when he goes on walks through the woods. Stiles talks to the wind, pressing his back against a tree so ancient and big around that he wouldn't be able to touch his hands together if he wrapped his arms around it.

It was the place his mother used to take him when he was little. A clearing where flowers and herbs grew with vigor. He used to help her gather herbs and plants, sit at her knee later when she ground them up with her mortar and pestle. He doesn't have her talent as a healer, his mind wanders when it should be focused on a task as detail-oriented as mixing medicines. His work is passable at best, but Stiles doesn't think he would be capable of mixing anything more involved than a basic salve or tea.

Out here in the woods its sort of easy to forget that just a few miles away the mines will be letting out early so that the workers can be home for the broadcast. Great billowing plumes of smoke rise up from the large plant that processes it all, filling the air with toxins that have the back of Stiles' throat tickling when the wind doesn't blow enough.

A place this beautiful shouldn't exist so close to District 12. Stiles bends down and picks up a few purple flowers growing in a small clump at the bottom of a tree. Monkshood Stiles thinks, though his mother would be able to tell him the exact type it is if she were here.

"But she's not." Stiles mumbles to himself, staring down at the flowers in his hand. He starts walking back towards the house. When it gets nicer, he'll bring a book and spend the afternoon reading through the stories he's collected over the winter. Maybe soon his dad will start telling him more about what his life was like before Stiles was born, when he was just back from the Games.

There's a large tree standing in the very middle of Victor's Village. A very long time ago, someone began carving the initials of each tribute sent to the Games from District 12 into its tough bark. 150 people from District 12, and only 2 have ever come back. Stiles presses his hand briefly to the place at his eye line where his dad marked Becca and Jordan’s initials. The oldest letters are gnarled and hard to decipher in the thick bark of the tree..

It's nice that they should be part of something still so alive after all this time. They deserve that for having died in such a meaningless way. Stiles drops the flowers at the bottom of the tree and gives it a little pat before he makes his way to the house.

It's warm inside. There's a fire burning in the hearth of the living room and a pie is sitting out on the table. Stiles sees that a slice is missing already and makes a note to go over and talk to Heather about the deal he thought they had about his dad's diet.

Stiles grabs himself a slice of pie and eats while he checks the state of the oven before he can make dinner. There are still a few coals burning away when he checks so Stiles adds kindling and fans the flames until he gets something that he can work with. They have some fresh chicken in the larder and lots of potatoes and carrots in the root cellar. Stiles throws everything into a pan and puts it in the oven.

The door to his dad's study is cracked open when Stiles approaches. He pushes it the rest of the way open and his dad looks up from the small fire burning. There's a book sitting open in his lap and a cut crystal tumbler with a bit of amber liquor sitting at the bottom in his hand.

"Hey buddy," his dad greets him. He closes the book and sets it down on top of one of the many piles in the room. "Were you careful?" he asks as he stands.

Stiles shrugs his shoulder and looks past his dad at the decanter resting on the mantel. He'll need to go looking for more whiskey in a few days. It's not too much for Stiles to do for his dad. In fact, compared to the families who lost Becca and Jordan last year who've joined the walking wounded, it doesn't seem like that much of a problem at all. They're the ones who have to go on with their lives, still struggling to make ends meet every day.

There isn't enough money in the world to throw at the problems that living in the aftermath of the Games does to a person. But it does help.

Even Stiles will admit that.

He sets the small table in the kitchen for himself and his dad and they talk about nothing really. Stiles asks about how the recruitment is coming for the Peacekeepers in the district. His dad joined the Peacekeepers ranks before Stiles' mom died. He still keeps in touch with them about this and that going on around the district and in Panem.

Stiles has time to do a bit of homework before the broadcast. He takes his books into the living room and stretches out on the carpet while the screen plays out some broadcast from the ruins of District 13. On the screen, the pretty young woman reporting is dressed in a dense looking rubber suit complete with a glass face shield. She explains that the radiation at the site of what used to be District 13 is still too strong to sustain life.

The broadcast cuts out and the Panen anthem plays as graphics roll over the screen. "Next: The Quarter Quell's Challenge Will Be Revealed" says the text on the screen. Stiles feels a bit sick about the pageantry surrounding whatever horrific thing President Silver will announce. The Quarter Quell happens every 25 years since the initial Hunger Games. It usually comes with a particularly gruesome theme.

The first Quarter Quell took place 50 years ago, and was marked by the districts having to elect which tributes they would send to the games. In places like District 1 and 2, people apparently ran campaigns for the honor of going to the Games. In District 12, where there was no honor in being selected to die on national television it meant the bleak decision of choosing a child you didn't know at random for the Games.

The second Quarter Quell called for twice the amount of tributes from each district and was the first year that a Mutt competed in the Games. The victor, an unassuming looking 12 year old boy who transformed into a horrific wolf with glowing gold--later blue eyes--made for what was still heralded as one of the bloodiest and most compelling Games since their creation. Since then, Mutts were an addition to the Games more often than not and were treated like royalty in the Capitol.

Bloodthirsty royalty.

Stiles shivers and tries not to think too hard about watching the Games when he was little, hiding behind his mother's leg and sneaking glances at the screen whenever one of the wolves was shown. Their eyes were what scared him the most. Those cold and calculating eyes that looked so human and yet so unnatural.

His dad marches begrudgingly into the room and sits down on the couch like the good citizen of Panem that he is while Stiles marks down the answers to the equations on his paper.

Stiles hopes for his father's sake that it's not anything like the year of double the number of tributes. He has a hard enough time bonding with just two of them in the week leading up to the Games.

He thinks it's a little unfair that he still has a year of eligibility after this. He'll be 18 a few days after the Games begin. Which means his dad won't get to be there with him--again.

The anthem plays again as Stiles shuts his book and leans back against the couch to watch the broadcast. The screen cuts to an elderly man in an impeccable black suit with a cluster of small purple flowers pinned to his lapel standing at the podium. A banner flashes across the bottom of the screen reads "President Silver" in a flowing script. Standing at his shoulder is his daughter, dressed in a shining Peacekeeper uniform with her helmet under one arm. She tosses her light brown hair against whatever wind blows past them as her father begins to speak into a microphone.

"On this, the Seventy-fifth anniversary of the end of the Great Rebellion and the beginning of the Hunger Games we remember the lives lost all across Panem in senseless violence." President Silver says as he pulls a sealed envelope from his pocket and breaks the seal with a flick of his thumb. "It is in recognition of this loss every 25 years that we hold a Quarter Quell." His hands shake for a moment as he pulls the card from the envelope and holds it up to his eyes.

Stiles looks over as a weight lands on his shoulder. His father is squeezing tightly at Stiles, enraptured in what is happening on the screen before him.

"As a reminder to the rebels that relation to those who show loyalty to the Capitol is no guarantee of safety, the male and female tributes reaped will be the heirs of those victors who have already proven their loyalty to Capitol through their actions in the Hunger Games."

The hand on Stiles' shoulder squeezes so tightly that his dad's wrist pops from the pressure. Stiles doesn't feel anything. He hears only the rushing sound of wind in his ears as the air inside his lungs expands exponentially as though he was a balloon about to burst. Air rushes inside of him and fills in all the gaps in his mind that had previously only been thinking about another piece of pie.

He hears the tinny sound of a girl shrieking above the static filling his ears and thinks of Heather. Oddly in this moment she is all that he can think about. She lives with her elderly great-aunt. Her parents died in an accident when she was young and so she was spared the orphanage because the only living family member she had lived up on the hill in Victor's Village.

Heather moved to the safest place in all of District 12. She cared for her aunt each and every day, never having to worry about signing up for tesserae.

Now it seems as though being related to the kind woman across the street may have cost Heather her life. Because those cries that Stiles hears are most definitely Heather's.

Heather and Stiles are the only two people in District 12 directly related to victors of the Games. Heirs, it seems.

The pressure on Stiles' shoulder increases for a split second before a glass slams into the screen perched across the room. The broadcast flickers for a moment and then goes dark. The last thing that Stiles sees is the grinning face of President Silver and the purple flowers pinned to his fine suit, so similar to the those he laid at the base of the tribute tree outside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reaping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now this chapter is un-betaed. All mistakes are my own! But I have read through it about 20 times on my own, and read it aloud to my beautiful Beta. Obviously I don't own The Hunger Games, or Teen Wolf. This is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head.
> 
> Heed this warning: This fic is full of spoilers for The Hunger Games and Teen Wolf. If you haven't read the books or seen the movie, and you don't want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn't read this. Because it will totally spoil a bunch of that awesome series for you. If you're feeling adventurous and decide that you want to go ahead and read my fic with my background, the Hunger Games wikipedia entry can be incredibly informing about the background of the world this story takes place in. There's a lot of terminology in this fic that I took from The Hunger Games, so that could be confusing if you haven't read the books.
> 
> Side note (a few words about death in this fic): As this story takes place in the Hunger Games universe, I think it's important that there is a sense of danger towards Stiles and the rest of the tributes in the Games. That being said. People will be put into mortal peril over and over again. People will die. I can tell you right now that the Teen Wolf characters who die will not die in vain. There's a method to my madness here. The lives of these characters aren't something that I take for granted.
> 
> Katniss' story would not have been as powerful had she not gone through the loss that she went through over the course of the books. On that same note, I think that loyalty, love, and loss are the three things that this fic orbits around the most.
> 
> This story runs parallel to the events of The Hunger Games in many ways, but in no way does that mean that some characters I have drawn a parallel between will die as they might have in the books. There will be a complete divergence from the canon of The Hunger Games at a point very early in the Games!
> 
> Please just stick with me. At this point I am incredibly invested in this fic. I am already trying to suss out the sequel to this fic and The Victor's Heir draft isn't even half way done. I just hope that the worry that some characters will die is not going to put people off of this fic. Because I think we've all learned from Teen Wolf and from the Hunger Games that the death of a character is painful, but it can be used as a way to give the story more meaning.

Two months later on the day of the reaping, Stiles thinks the world has no right to be as beautiful as it is while he makes his way past the assembled members of his district. Heather and her aunt walk in front of Stiles and his dad. Stiles sees the vague outline of a hand shaped bruise at Heather's elbow and tries not to think too much about the night that the Peacekeepers dragged her back into her house a few weeks ago.

His dad said they found her outside the fence about a mile away from home, starving after three days with no food. Stiles went through his own 'adjustment period' after learning he had a one-way ticket to the Games. Nothing that involved the Peacekeepers though. 

Stiles blacked out only moments after the announcement had been made. When he opened his eyes, his dad had been standing over him, shaking his shoulders with wide, glassy looking eyes. Stiles had felt nothing but numb that night as he took in the fact that he would be headed to the Games in two months with no chance at an appeal.

He had wandered through the house on autopilot to his dad's study, where the glass decanter of liquor still sat on the mantel above the dying fire. Wordlessly he walked back to the living room where his dad had been staring at the spot on the ground where Stiles had woken up and poured them both a drink.

They sat and drank in silence for what seemed like forever, but was only actually two hours judging by the clock on the mantel. His homework laid forgotten at his feet as Stiles sat there, with his father's arm around his shoulder. They were both shaking like the walls had come down around them in the middle of winter.

It had taken Stiles a while to get used to the burning of the alcohol as it made its way down his throat and settled in his belly. His hands were tingling and Heather had finally stopped screaming her head off outside.

The house had settled around them as the time passed. The creaking of doorjambs and wind against the glass panes of the windows lulled Stiles into a kind of trance while the clock on the mantel ticked on and on.

A shrill ringing sounded throughout the house, making Stiles jump and look around. He had half expected to see Peacekeepers walking through the door to collect him for his trip to the Capitol right then and there. Instead it turned out to be the seldom-used phone in the entryway that was making the sound.

Stiles' dad stood up stiffly and walked to the phone with its dusty receiver and picked it up. He didn't even get to answer before Stiles heard the soft sounds of another voice on the other end of the line. His dad pressed his hand to his eyes, sitting down right on the ground of the entryway as he listened.

Somewhere between his dad picking up the phone, speaking softly to the person on the other end, and hanging up sometime later Stiles had tilted over on his side and closed his heavy eyes against the light emanating from the crystal chandelier.

When he opened his eyes the next day he found himself in bed with a large glass of water sitting on the bedside table and a pounding headache. The sun was already high up in the sky when Stiles looked out the window. It was far later than Stiles needed to be up for school.

Not that his times tables would help him at all in the arena.

And just like that Stiles had remembered his predicament and what would be happening in two months.

His dad had found him on the bathroom floor moments later, shaking against the cool tile as his body quaked against the panic coursing through him. Stiles remembered this happening years ago right after his mom died. That winter his dad and Stiles had camped out in the house, both too afraid to leave.

John had quieted Stiles' panic by patiently feeding Stiles sips of water and telling Stiles to breathe with him as they sat in the small bathroom.

It had taken a while, but eventually Stiles got up off the floor and went downstairs to sit with his dad in the kitchen. Stiles' dad made him tea and toast like when he was home sick from school and then sat down to lay down the law.

"What happened yesterday," his dad had said. "That isn't the way we're going to get through this. No more drinking, and no more checking out from reality--for either of us." His dad pressed a hand to Stiles' head, ruffling his hair fondly. "If we're going to get you through this, it's going to take a lot of work. But it's not impossible."

That day Stiles took his dad under the fence and listened as his father showed him how to select kindling from the damp forest floor and start a fire with nothing but a two sticks and a bit of rope. Each and every day when Stiles should have been getting up to go to school he rose and took to either his father's study to read his mother's books about medicines or went into the forest.

Stiles still had panic attacks, but they came fewer and farther between. He was still learning how to sooth them himself and poured through his mother's books to try to find some sort of herbal remedy to calm them. The thought of entering the arena with 23 other people hoping to emerge the winner made his heart beat faster and faster in his chest.

Still, now as he walks up to the stage amongst the reverent looking people of District 12, Stiles holds his head up to the sun beating down from above and tries his best to put on a brave face for the cameras filming him from each side. He's pretty sure in the richer districts like 1, 2, and 4 there will be more children to choose from for the reaping. They've had more victors, and therefore more heirs of those victors to make up their pool.

It's pretty pathetic looking with just Stiles and Heather making their way to the stage where a man in a shocking turquoise suit stands at a microphone. He's wringing his hands together in what Stiles thinks might be nerves until he gets close enough to see that the man just must be highly energetic. He doesn't look anything other than thrilled to be there in District 12 right now.

Stiles climbs the stage with his dad and they make their way to the opposite side of the stage from where Heather is standing. She turns empty-looking eyes to Stiles for not the first time since the announcement of the Quarter Quell. He's known Heather since they were small children. They used to play together up at Victor's Village. Once they broke into one of the empty houses down the street and pretended it was their castle.

The man standing at the microphone runs his hands through his already wild looking brown hair. He claps once in front of the microphone and it reverberates so loudly around the square that everyone jumps, looking around.

He laughs, holding up both his hands to the people who somberly stare up at Stiles and Heather. Stiles thinks they should probably look a bit happier considering that their children get a free pass this year in the Games. They know for sure that it will be Stiles and Heather headed into the arena.

"Sorry about that folks!" He yells into the microphone. Stiles suddenly worries that this representative from the Capitol might not be playing with a full deck. "Today, I Bobby Finstock, have the privilege in selecting that lucky boy and girl who will compete for the ultimate honor of representing District 12 in the seventy-fifth Hunger Games!"

Finstock casts a small look over each shoulder at both Stiles and Heather as though he's only just noticed that it's only the two of them standing there. He pauses awkwardly, looking out on the crowd as though he expects them to clap.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road. Ladies first." Finstock walks to the large glass bowl perched on a podium next to Heather and pulls out the lone slip of paper resting at the bottom. Stiles sees that Heather's ankles and knocking together as Finstock walks back to the microphone and rips open the slip of paper with vigor. Stiles wishes that this guy didn't seem so excited by this whole process. "Representing District 12-- Heather Green."

Heather stifles a cry behind her hand and only walks forward after a Peacekeeper pushes her forward with a gloved hand. Her aunt is sitting on a chair with her cane in her hands; her wrinkled face is crumpled in complete despair as she watches her niece step forward to where Finstock is grinning maniacally at her.

"And now for the boys." Finstock says, walking to the bowl at Stiles' elbow. He looks away quickly when he catches Stiles' eyes. Stiles knows what the slip of paper in his hand will say, but it still feels like a punch in the gut when the seal is broken and Finstock stares at the paper for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to make out what's on the paper. "G--"

Stiles takes pity on the man after his third attempt to pronounce his name and fake coughs into his elbow, "Stiles."

Finstock throws him a relieved look, "Stiles Stilinski." he says, rolling his eyes as he speaks into the microphone. Stiles orders his feet cooperate with his brain as he makes his way to where Finstock has an arm outstretched towards him. "Were they out of vowels, kid?" he says lowly towards Stiles ear.

He would laugh if he didn't think it would transform into a sob by the time the sound made its way up his throat and out of his mouth.

"And there you have it." Finstock says. "Your tributes representing District 12, how about a round of applause?"

But there's nothing, no sound coming from the people of District 12 as they stare up at Stiles and Heather. Instead, in silence they raise three fingers to their lips and collectively hold out their hands to Stiles and Heather. It's an old sign in District 12. It goes back farther than the Games and the Capitol. It's the best they can do in rebellion, Stiles thinks. There's too few of them to lash out against the Peacekeepers in anger as once again two children are plucked from their midst.

So instead they hold up this sign that means love, loyalty, and friendship. Stiles looks over at his dad and smiles a little bitterly. Because in this moment it would be easier to consider the human race a lost cause. A species that could send its children off to die shouldn't be so capable of showing Stiles kindness when all he wants is to hate each and every one of them. Each and every person in the district who doesn't have to go the Hunger Games, and the people in the Capitol who will watch the Games so they can bet on the outcome.

He raises his own hand to his lips and holds the sign up to them. If he never comes back here, he'll leave them with this memory of seeing him in the flesh before it all plays out on the screens in their homes.

Finstock wraps everything up by spouting off nonsense about Capitol loyalty and the pageantry of the Games. Stiles' eyes narrow on the girl with the red braids who he had seen crying on the playground the day of the Quarter Quell announcement two months ago.

She's certainly not crying now as she stares at Heather up on stage.

A group of Peacekeepers take Stiles and his father directly to the train after the reaping. Stiles used to visit with his dad in the courthouse after the reaping before the train left while the tributes visited with their families. There isn't anyone that Stiles thinks would want to visit him, so it's fine with him when he's pushed into a car with Finstock and Heather.

Finstock rambles on and on about the luxuries of the Capitol. Stiles tunes in and out of the conversation. He's more anxious to get on the train so that he and his dad can watch the footage from the reapings in the other districts. He'd like to know who he's going up against in the arena.

"The whole thing is an engineering marvel," Finstock says, "It travels at over 100 miles an hour. We'll reach the Capitol in just two days." he gives a small sniff at Stiles' shoulder and scrunches up his nose. "Plus, there are the showers. Boy, you gotta check out those showers. In fact, I insist on it."

Stiles rolls his eyes at the man next to him and lets himself out of the car when they reach the train station. He and his dad march past the opulent car at the front of the train with its sideboard piled high with pastries and make for the car equipped with videos from each of the Games and a large screen mounted on the wall.

His dad holds the remote looking at Stiles seriously. "I want you to know, that no matter how this plays out, you've already handled this more bravely than I did when I was your age."

Stiles cocks an eyebrow at his dad and slaps a grin over his face, holding out his hand. "Is this your way of telling me you don't know how to work the screen?" he asks.

His dad shakes his head and hands over the remote begrudgingly. He lets Stiles deflect in this moment because if either of them really started talking about how they felt, they wouldn't be able to get any work done. And they still have a lot to cover before Stiles enters the arena in a week's time.

Stiles keys up the screen to where they've begun showing the reaping ceremonies from each of the districts, starting with District 12. Stiles thinks this makes everything more dramatic as they go along.

They're just in time to catch the footage of Stiles and Heather standing at the front of the stage. They each look vaguely like they're going to throw up while Finstock grins wildly between them.

His dad picks up a tablet of paper and a pen from somewhere and jots down notes as they watch the broadcast.

The screen cuts to District 11 where the proceedings are almost as dull as those in District 12. They have a few more people on either side in contention for the honor of representing District 11, but not many. The boy and girl they call are a study in opposites. They both have deep brown skin and wear similar denim outfits. But while the girl chosen is waif-like and small, the boy stands head and shoulders over the rest of the people on the stage. Vernon Boyd glares at camera while the woman who perhaps is his mother crumples to the ground behind him when he is selected as the male tribute for 11. 

Boyd clearly turns to help her up, but the shot cuts quickly away to where District 10 has begun its selection process. A girl with blonde braids and a boy with a mop of dark brown hair falling in his eyes are selected. The boy visibly pales when his name is called. He looks to the older boy standing next to him desperately as though waiting for him to volunteer in his place. But it never happens.

The boy begins gasping in a way that reminds Stiles of his own panic attacks. The boy’s brown eyes go wide as he looks around in desperation. Stiles’ dad picks up the remote and pauses the broadcast.

"That's Scott." He says, pointing at the screen. His dad's paused it at just the moment where a woman with curly brown hair seems to be muscling her way forward through the crowd. "And his mother, Melissa." Stiles thinks that the name sounds familiar but can't place why as dad continues. He sounds shaky. "She's a friend--a great lady."

Stiles looks over his shoulder at his dad and throws him a look of disbelief. "Can we not right now? With the moony eyes and knowing her son's name. Keep it in your pants." His dad sighs a little, at Stiles' sarcasm. But it's not an angry sound. 

His dad gives him a calculating glare and very deliberately raises his hand to play the recording from where he paused it. John dutifully takes notes as the tributes for District 9, a brother and sister with red hair and matching frowns are revealed.

Then when District 8 selects his tributes, Stiles has to laugh. Because this has clearly got to be a joke. They boy they select is an unremarkable 13 year-old with blonde hair. The girl on the other hand struts forward before her full name can even be read. Lydia Martin tosses her strawberry blonde hair across her shoulder and pouts into the camera. Her Capitol representative seems completely flabbergasted by her confidence.

Stiles begins to recognize some of the mentors standing with their tributes as he watches the broadcast. Usually when the Games are about to happen, they'll broadcast highlights from the Mentor's games. Or in the case of some of the more famous mentors, they'll pick a week and broadcast their entire Games. It's a way for them to fill out a whole week of programing without having to report on how District 13 is still uninhabitable.

District 7's tributes are a man in his thirties wearing sunglasses and a younger girl of maybe 16 or 17 with long curling blonde hair and a wicked look in her green eyes as she surveys the crowd standing before her. District 6's tributes both burst out in tears when their names are called.

In District 5, Stiles thinks he might actually see a fight break out when the boy they call puts up a fight on his way to the microphone. The woman they've already selected is older. Stiles thinks her name might be Jennifer. The male tribute has a strong jaw and panicked looking eyes as he's dragged forward. His name is Jackson.

Stiles' dad looks a little confused when they bring him forward. He jots something down on his pad of paper and looks up in time for District 4 to be revealed. The woman is intimidating and powerful looking, with long black hair and sharp white teeth. Kali. The boy on the other hand looks like the kind of person who'd never find himself caught up in something like the Games. He's tall and tanned. There are dimples in his cheeks and when he looks at the man who must be his father, giving him a reluctant smile, laugh-lines show around his eyes. The screen says his name is Danny.

It's unfortunate that someone as happy looking as Danny will be sent to the Games, Stiles thinks. He'll probably get lots of sponsors and help while he's in the arena. Stiles should have tried to smile more.

The boy tribute in District 3 looks more nervous about the stern looking man standing next to him on stage then when his name is called. He runs his hands through his curly light brown hair and takes his place next to the other tribute from his district. Stiles' dad sighs as they show the boy's father clapping along with the rest of the audience as his son looks around with startled, wide eyes.

If the boy in District 3 looks surprised, the girl with long dark hair and pale skin from District 2 is the opposite. She keeps her face neutral and her chin held up towards to sky when they call her name, Allison Argent. The man they call also from the district is gigantic. His biceps are about as large as Stiles' thighs. They call him Ennis. Stiles will call him Enormous. 

Stiles looks to his dad, but John's busy writing so Stiles just goes back to watching the broadcast. He's expected that the tributes from District 1, 2, and 4 would be careers as it is. But they also have parents or guardians who've survived the Games. And they've known for months that they're potentially going into the Games. It's a combination that Stiles isn't all that fond of.

Just as expected, District 1 is the most opulent of all the districts. While 12's reaping had taken place on the steps of their rarely used courthouse, District 1 has their reaping on a flashy glass stage with seating for the audience watching from their district. Stiles balks as he looks at the two lines of men and women facing each other on opposite sides of the stage. There have got to be at least 20 of them in each line. It's far more than any of the other districts had to offer. They're all healthy looking and well fed, dressed in the closest thing to Capitol fashion as you can find without actually being there.

Their district representative is clearly a pig in filth, she's so happy to be there. She takes forever to get through the process of choosing the tributes for 1. First she reaches into the glass bowl holding the girls names. The woman makes a show of moving her hand through the small pile of papers before she selects one and holds it up triumphantly.

When they announce her, Cora Hale steps forward. She's smaller than most of the girls standing in line on the left side of the stage. Her long dark hair is pulled back, making her young face look more severe. She's dressed in all black with a leather jacket wrapped around her narrow shoulders. Cora's intimidating. But she can only be a teenager, Stiles thinks. She’s definitely a few years younger than Stiles. And it's a good thing that she was selected and not one of the other women in the line, because there are some girls who look like they would have no problem kicking Stiles' ass from here to District 13 with no effort.

He nearly sighs with relief, shooting his dad a look and a smile. Because they definitely dodged a bullet with Cora Hale. Only, Stiles' dad is sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the TV with a haunted look in his eyes as the Capitol representative makes her way to the boys names and selects the next one.

"Killian Jacobs." The woman announces. His dad sighs next to Stiles, shaking his head and going back to his paper. Killian steps forward confidently, running a hand through his shockingly blonde hair. 

It should end there. But instead Stiles watches on screen as the line of males splits in two and man stomps forward, pushing them out of the way. Before the representative can ask is anyone would volunteer as tribute in place of Killian, the man calls out. "I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute."

Cora shakes her head, breaking away from the representative as she walks over to the man. Seeing them standing together, Stiles takes in the way they both have the same dark hair and strong features. They both have the same sharp jawline and they both hold their mouths in flat lines of dislike. Brother and sister perhaps.

The man is striking with the lights of the stage pointed on him; his gaze is intense as the representative walks over to speak with him away from the microphone. He's powerful looking with scruff on his face and his own black leather jacket straining against his broad shoulder. He looks like he's arguing with the woman from the Capitol.

Another man steps forward from the group standing off to the side on the stage. He's wearing a soft looking sweater with the collar pulled up, but for some reason Stiles shivers at his presence. The man speaks to the three people gathered on the stage, one side of his mouth quirks up as he speaks. He has a goatee and short dark hair like the two younger people standing with him. Some kind of warning in the back of Stiles’ head goes off as he sees the group standing there speaking.

Finally the woman from the Capitol goes back to the microphone. "Quite the dramatic reaping ceremony. It seems as though we have a volunteer to take the place of Killian Jacobs. Derek Hale." The woman's voice shakes on the last name a bit as the man revealed to be Derek takes his place next to Cora, who must be his sister.

The camera zooms in on their faces as the crowd claps. They both have twin brooding expressions on their faces. Derek in particular looks like he's sucking on a lemon while he holds his sister close to his side. And as it had happened sometimes in the other districts, the guardian of the tributes steps forward. The man in the sweater with the goatee who had argued with the representative clasps the shoulders of the brother and sister. The light flashes across the stage and Stiles has to rewind and pause before he can tell what he's seeing. In the flash of light something has changed in their faces and it makes Stiles go cold. 

Very clearly he can see in the paused image of Cora, Derek, and the mysterious man who must be a previous victor standing there frozen. Their eyes have changed to something that makes Stiles' vision tunnel. Glowing. They're glowing. Very clearly Cora's are gold, Derek's are blue, and the man's are red.

It takes Stiles a moment to realize how he recognized Derek, and why he hadn't been standing in the line with the other tributes.

It's because Derek's already a victor. He's had his place in the Games and won. And he's the heir to a previous victor of the Games. Peter Hale, the youngest victor to win the Hunger Games.

Peter’s the boy who entered the Games during the last Quarter Quell 25 years ago and reminded the districts just what a Mutt can do. He's the wolf who haunted Stiles' dreams as a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, the 24 tributes who will represent their districts in the 75th Hunger Games!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Constructive feedback much appreciated!
> 
> I think I will try to have 2 chapters up per week as I move on from here. I currently have 12 chapters and am constantly working on this fic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles learns more about his future competitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now this chapter is un-betaed. All mistakes are my own! But I have read through it about 20 times on my own, and read it aloud to my beautiful Beta. Obviously I don't own The Hunger Games, or Teen Wolf. This is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head.
> 
> Heed this warning: This fic is full of spoilers for The Hunger Games and Teen Wolf. If you haven't read the books or seen the movie, and you don't want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn't read this. Because it will totally spoil a bunch of that awesome series for you. If you're feeling adventurous and decide that you want to go ahead and read my fic with my background, the Hunger Games wikipedia entry can be incredibly informing about the background of the world this story takes place in. There's a lot of terminology in this fic that I took from The Hunger Games, so that could be confusing if you haven't read the books.
> 
> Side note (a few words about death in this fic): As this story takes place in the Hunger Games universe, I think it's important that there is a sense of danger towards Stiles and the rest of the tributes in the Games. That being said. People will be put into mortal peril over and over again. People will die. I can tell you right now that the Teen Wolf characters who die will not die in vain. There's a method to my madness here. The lives of these characters aren't something that I take for granted.
> 
> Katniss' story would not have been as powerful had she not gone through the loss that she went through over the course of the books. On that same note, I think that loyalty, love, and loss are the three things that this fic orbits around the most.
> 
> This story runs parallel to the events of The Hunger Games in many ways, but in no way does that mean that some characters I have drawn a parallel between will die as they might have in the books. There will be a complete divergence from the canon of The Hunger Games at a point very early in the Games!
> 
> At this point I am incredibly invested in this fic. I am already trying to suss out the sequel to this fic and The Victor's Heir draft isn't even half way done. I just hope that the worry that some characters will die is not going to put people off of this fic. Because I think we've all learned from Teen Wolf and from the Hunger Games that the death of a character is painful, but it can be used as a way to give the story more meaning.

"How is that fair?" Stiles yells at Finstock after having burst into the bar car where their district representative seemed to be treating himself to a drink that matched the bright blue color of his suit. "Two Mutts in the Games, and one of them is a former victor!"

Finstock doesn't seem surprised that Stiles is yelling at him in the least. He must have been briefed while Stiles was watching the reaping himself. "The bylaws state that the pool of tributes to be reaped will be made up of the heirs of those tributes who have already won the Hunger Games themselves." Finstock explains slowly, as though he has no belief that Stiles would be able to grasp that. "Derek Hale is Peter Hale's nephew. He's also a victor. His relation to his uncle does make him eligible to compete."

Stiles throws up his arms and wracks his hair with his hands, messing up the way that he had carefully combed it this morning in preparation for the reaping. "That's not fair!" he yells, knowing that he sounds petulant.

Finstock rises from his stool and pokes Stiles squarely in the chest, knocking him back an inch or so. His dad steps between them and pins Finstock with an intense glare. "You know what's unfair, Stiles. The 20 years I've dedicated to the service of the Capitol, only to find myself representing District 12 during the most important Hunger Games of my lifetime! That sucks!" Finstock yells, losing most of the collected demeanor that he'd had when Stiles showed up in the first place.

A man in a suit carrying a clipboard with a hopeful expression on his face walks into the train car, "I swear Greenberg, if you utter a single word to me right now I will throw you off this train." Finstock yells at the man. He balks and backs out of the car wordlessly. "Is it too much to ask for an assistant who isn't a total moron?" he says, swinging his glass back and downing the whole thing.

Stiles' dad is clearly better suited to handling this right now. He's certainly not red-faced and yelling like both Stiles and Finstock.

"Look," His dad says. "These are extenuating circumstances. That's my son, and he's scared. We're all terrified for our children right now, each and every one of the victors traveling to the Capitol. He shouldn't have yelled. That was uncalled for."

Finstock looks taken aback as his dad takes him firmly by the elbow and steers him to a small group of plush looking armchairs next to the bar. They all sit down and Stiles does his best not to glare around the train car.

"John." Finstock says, turning to him. He's calmer now. Stiles is happy for it. "The Hale thing, it wasn't expected that Derek would be selected. As a victor he wasn't put into the pool, he'd earned that right in the Games. But Cora's his little sister, and technically since he's an heir, he was allowed to volunteer to take the place of the male tribute who had been selected."

Stiles melts back into the chair in defeat. He stares out the window, hands and feet tapping absently. It's now especially that he wishes he were outside so that he could run off his nervous energy past the fence in the woods. But instead he's stuck inside the train speeding its way to the Capitol while servants bring them lunch and drinks.

Luckily it seems like his dad's been able to bond a bit with Finstock. He sympathizes with him about having to represent District 12 to the Capitol. "Stiles is a smart kid." His dad says, "Clever. I really think he's going to make it through this."

Stiles tries not to dwell too much on the fact that there are 23 other people being told this exact same thing by their guardians around Panem. Except for maybe that curly-haired boy with the bright eyes, something about the way his father had clapped along with the rest of the district had turned Stiles' stomach. It occurs to Stiles for not the first time in his life, for a victor, his dad's incredibly well adjusted to life after the Games all things considered.

Finstock nods along with John as he shovels pasta into his mouth gracelessly. Maybe this is why he's been sent off to District 12, Finstock certainly seems less polished than the other representatives he's seen on television today.

John and Finstock talk about strategy in the arena. They offer Stiles small bits of advice about the upcoming week.

"It's the sponsors you really need to worry about." Finstock says, taking a big gulp of the drink that a servant keeps dutifully refreshing from a pitcher. "When things turn in the Games--and they will--medicine or matches could be the difference between life and death."

John jumps in. "Stiles, that means being on your best behavior. No sarcasm. And above all else, I beg of you to keep whatever opinions you have of the Capitol to yourself." Stiles is happy that his dad has two decades of experience taking tributes into the Games. Having him as a mentor means that he'll do everything that he can to get Stiles through this.

"Be sure to kiss some ass." Finstock chimes in.

"I can be charming!" Stiles argues, sitting forward in his chair. He knocks his plate to the ground with his knee by accident. They each stare at the remains of pasta with red sauce on the ground.

"Good luck with that." Finstock says, sarcasm lacing the words. He takes another drink. "Because we certainly can't market you as being mysterious, the Hales have that in spades."

Stiles frowns. It's not enough that they have claws, fangs and night vision. The Hales have to take all the sponsors so they can have all the comforts of home in the arena too. Perfect.

"Funny." Stiles says, clapping his hands together. "I can be funny! Hilarious even. No one wants the funny guy to die!"

Finstock appears to consider this for a moment, "Perhaps, but if funny turns to annoying, they'll be calling for you to die in a horrific way just to shut you up."

It's a situation Stiles never thought he would find himself in, arguing for the way that he might present himself in the Hunger Games. How is he supposed to make people love him so much that they would hand over money to help him?

"It's a shame I can't stand Greenberg in your place." Finstock laughs, standing up from his seat. He chuckles to himself as he walks to the door. "That would be hilarious!"

Stiles looks over at his dad, "I'm going to die." he says it like it's a joke. John's face wavers for a moment in the silence and then his eyes fill up with tears. He pulls Stiles to him and hugs him to his chest, holding on so tightly it's like he thinks the Capitol will have to pry him away to get to Stiles. It makes Stiles' chest feel tight to think that he might leave his dad all alone in the house up in Victor's Village.

There are 23 other people in the Games. 12 boys and 12 girls who have been selected just because their parents or guardians showed their strength in winning the Games. Each and every one of them will have mentors who will fight tooth and nail outside the arena to give their tribute a chance.

Stiles has his father's love on his side. He knows that when it comes down to it, John will do everything in his power to muscle the sponsors Stiles needs for help. But it won't be enough if Stiles isn't doing everything he can on his own to help. He needs to be the best at what he does. He's not a fighter, but Stiles thinks he might have a leg up on the competition because of the time he's spent out in the wilderness.

He has everything his mother taught him about healing too. That could really make a difference.

The other thing he has on the competition is desperation. Because if he doesn't come back home, his dad will be all alone. There won't be anyone to make sure that he's eating or to sit with him when things get bad around the anniversary of his mother's death.

So he'll fight with everything he has and more. Because he will come back to District 12 even if it means getting his hands dirty in the arena. Even if it means killing for it.

He will not become just another set of initials carved into the Tribute Tree.

\----------

Stiles and his dad pull themselves together enough to spend a few hours going over the notes that his dad has about the other tributes. For the most part, he seems to know who their parents or guardians are. But there are a few people, like the boy Jackson from 5 and the girl from 7 who he needs to ask around about.

They haven't spoken much about the Hales yet. Stiles thinks it might be because his dad recognizes that it might be a little too much for him to take when he's already been through a lot. Stiles is both happy about his ignorance and annoyed that his dad doesn't think he's strong enough to talk about them.

If he had a mentor who wasn’t his dad, they probably wouldn’t be coddling him this much. They might be able to detach from Stiles in a way that’s helpful. They could be objective and clinical about preparing him for the arena.

Stiles knows he's going to have to start facing the idea of seeing those glowing gold and blue eyes in the arena at some point. He'd like to be prepared.

At dinner, Finstock merrily discusses the process of training Stiles will go through this week leading up to the Games. He says they have a surprise for him when he gets the Capitol for the presentation of the tributes to President Silver. "More surprising than finding out I had a pass directly to the Games? Gee, it must be great." Stiles bites out a little bitterly down at his plate.

Next to him, Heather drops her fork with a resounding clatter and flees the room. Stiles' stomach drops and he instantly feels like complete and utter garbage. He should know by now that his particular brand of dark humor wouldn't go over well with her in the room. He saw the dark bags under her eyes when she stumbled into the dining car for dinner.

Her aunt didn't even make it there to eat. Finstock had a tray sent to her compartment. As if it weren't bad enough for Heather with her hysterics over the game (and her fail attempt at escape), her aunt's failing health means she might not be up to lobbying for Heather once she makes it into the arena.

Stiles' dad gives him a pointed look over his glass of water and Stiles immediately drops his napkin onto the table, going after her. He finds Heather moments later in the bar car, staring down into the depths of a pale pink drink already nearly gone.

"I'm sorry." Stiles says. When Heather turns to look at him, he stumbles back. She's a poor copy of the girl Stiles remembers from just months ago. Heather used to be a vibrant and happy girl. Her long blonde hair was always falling out of the braids she wore it in as she danced through the small square between their houses to music she could only hear.

The girl sitting there, only a few months younger than Stiles looks years older. Her long hair hangs in a dingy sheet around her pale and thin face. The dark bags under her eyes and the way her cheekbones stick out tell Stiles that she hasn't been eating or sleeping.

And while the latter has been hard for Stiles, he's been progressively gaining muscle and weight from his training with his dad. He's in no way approaching the bulk that someone like Boyd or Derek has, but there's a noticeable difference in the way that his shirts hug his shoulders and arms a little tighter than they had before the Quarter Quell announcement.

Heather lets out a bark of laughter. "Nothing to be sorry about." she says, drinking down the last of the liquor in her glass. "Nothing either of us can do. Not when we're going to the Games with two Mutts and the Careers from 2 and 4."

"We can try." Stiles says lamely. But there's really nothing he can say that will change her mood, and he knows it.

"We can try." Heather says mockingly. "What we can try is to enjoy what little time we have left in our young lives. Okay?"

Stiles backs away from her slowly as she goes back to another drink as it's poured for her. He hardly recognizes this girl who he thought wasn't capable of surprising him.

He walks back to where Finstock and his father are both sitting before immense slices of chocolate cake and sits down silently. They're talking strategy about who they'll be speaking to about sponsorship.

Stiles shovels chocolate cake into his mouth on autopilot while Heather drinks two cars down. Stiles passes through the bar car again on his way to the room with the recordings of the Games after dinner. Heather is passed out with her head resting on the bar and her face pressed against the puddle that her spilled drink has made.

She weights less than Stiles expected when he picks her up and carries her through the train to where her room is in the car before his own. He sets her down on top of the neatly made bed of her compartment, not bothering to turn on the light. Heather curls in on herself in her sleep, muttering something quietly.

Stiles makes sure to pull the wastebasket out of the bathroom and sets it next to her bed before he leaves. His dad stops into see him a few hours later while Stiles sits in the glow of the television, watching the highlights from the last Quarter Quell.

It takes a lot for Stiles to keep watching as the screen shows a young Peter Hale stalking through the arctic landscape that made up the arena. He's at a significant advantage compared to the other tributes that are all freezing and struggling to keep their fires lit amongst the strong flurries of snow.

Peter sneaks along on silent paws, his body low to the ground. The grey color of his fur blends in with the gloomy landscape. 50 yards ahead of him, a boy and a girl struggle to march through the snow that comes up to their knees. The girl stops, raising her sword and turning quickly to look behind her. The boy does the same. They're both powerfully built and better armed than most of the other tributes.

There isn't a sound that betrays Peter's attack before it happens. The tributes are taken by surprise when Peter leaps from the rock high up to their left; his amber eyes flashing are the only color on the landscape before red blood paints itself all over the snow around them. When it's over, Peter shifts back into his human form, blood caking itself all over his hands and face.

Two cannon shots sound, signaling the deaths of two tributes to the rest of the tributes in the Games.

He takes the clothes of the boy before the hovercraft arrives to collect the bodies. The grey jacket and pants hang off of his smaller body as he walks back into the cover of the trees in his bare feet. One of the camera tracks his movements as he wipes his sleeve across his face to rid himself of the blood. Peter looks up at the camera, his eyes flash with an eerie glow, but instead of amber, now they're a bright blue.

Stiles shivers absently as he remembers seeing a now older Peter Hale with his niece and nephew at the reaping on television this morning. Peter's eyes are red now. Stiles doesn't know what that means or if it means anything at all. What he does know if that Derek has the same blue eyes of his uncle. He can't help but draw the conclusion that they're the eyes of a killer, just like his uncle's.

What little Stiles knows about Mutts he learned in school along with all the children of his district. When the Rebellion took place, the Capitol engineered many creatures like the jabberjays and the trackerjackers as a defense against the rebels. But their greatest creation were the Mutts, people with the minds of wolves that could shift into monstrous beasts. They were used to infiltrate rebel encampments, gaining the trust of the rebels before they turned on them.

They were a force for destruction and death. The mere mention of Mutts to anyone over the age of 50 is enough to send them into a panic. They slaughtered whole towns under the orders of the Capitol Nearly everyone that Stiles went to school with claimed that there was some distant relative of theirs who had seen one or killed one. But mostly that was all bull.

In school they taught that Mutts were nearly indestructible. They could heal from major wounds in a matter of minutes. It was useless to try to kill one. They were just too powerful.

In the years that followed after the Rebellion, the Mutts apparently were given their freedom from service to the Capitol and allowed to live relatively normal lives. The small number of Mutts who existed lived amongst the people of Panem, as a way to remind everyone that the arm of the Capitol reached into their very communities. You might not even know that your neighbor was a Mutt until they turned on you for speaking out against the Capitol.

Stiles doesn’t think that there are any in District 12. They’ve never had so much as a murder in all the time that he’s been alive. Stiles thinks he would know if there was a Mutt in school with him, or in town.

But that’s the genius of their design. Stiles doesn’t have any way of knowing. They look just like everyone else on the outside. But when their eyes flash just as Peter’s had they betray what deadly and otherworldly creatures they truly are.

\--------

It turns out that two days goes much faster than one might hope it would when they're in desperate need of time. Stiles and his dad spend as much time as they can reviewing the recordings of the other Games. They watch some for John to show Stiles the different strategies of other victors. He points out those who never actually get their hands dirty. 

In particular, the tribute from District 4, Danny's father. During his Games they were in a tropical area with little land and practically no fresh water. Danny's father, having experience with the ocean was able to fashion a series of darts outfitted with poison he collected from something called a sea urchin. For all that he was a powerfully built man, he never had to raise a single hand in order to defend himself.

Stiles thinks that's a smart way to get through the Games and makes a note to spend some time trying to research poisons in general while he's in training.

Lydia Martin's mother somehow managed to make it through her own Games by camouflaging herself in a suit made from greenery so convincing that multiple times tributes passed right by her without so much as a glance.

Then there are the less subtle victors, like the girl's father from District 7 who took his knowledge of tree chopping to drop a massive oak tree down on the camp of a of Careers while they were sleeping.

They watch Derek Hale's Games as well. They took place 6 years ago, when Derek was 15, which explains why Stiles didn't remember him immediately when he stepped forward. That was the year of the Games that he hid behind his mother's leg for the last time. They lost her a few months later.

Derek made his way through the Games practically without incident. He used his powerful sense of sight and smell to steer himself clear of the other tributes while they fought amongst themselves. It was only when a large forest fire was set off that Derek was forced into the path of a boy from District 2. The boy lunged at Derek with a spear and a crazed look in his eyes. Derek, in wolf form went for the boy's throat.

Stiles had to turn away from the spray of blood on the screen and look out the window at the mountainous landscape passing by as the train approached the Capitol.

Derek hadn't shown the same ruthlessness that many of the other Mutts in the arena had displayed. Apart from the boy from 2, Derek spent much of the rest of the Games in seclusion. Those Games ended when the last girl remaining from 10 had found herself with a deep wound in her side after battling with another girl from 6.

It was more an act of kindness that Derek did for the girl when he found her a day later in the same clearing where she had killed the girl from 6. Derek, now back to his human form tracked her down and held her close in as the sun rose on the arena. She was pale and weak as she asked him very softly to end her life. Derek nodded and told her he would, he told her to watch the sun rise up in the sky for a last time and that everything would be okay.

Compared to the resounding boom of the canon marking the girl's death, the sound of her neck breaking had been barely a whisper.

Derek cradled the girl’s body in his hands for a long moment after it was declared that he was the victor. He stood up; the girls’ body draped across his arms and looked up at the hovercraft that came to collect her with a large metal claw. Derek’s eyes, which had been yellow moments ago, flashed blue at the camera as he carried her away. Derek refused to let the girl to be taken by the hovercraft’s claw.

The recording ends just as the train enters a long and dark tunnel leading under the mountains protecting the Capitol from the rest of the districts surrounding it. His dad comes back to find Stiles moments later as they prepare for his departure from the train.

As much as Stiles doesn't want to be, he's amazed when he sees the Capitol for the first time out the windows of the train. The buildings are taller than anything Stiles has ever seen, so much so that they look like they might be touching the sky at the tops. The glass of all the windows glitters from the sun’s reflection. It makes the whole city look like it’s made out of precious gems of every color.

Then there are the people, all dressed so bizarrely in bright colors just as Finstock is. The older man is standing next to Stiles in a bright purple suit. The people of the Capitol are waiting in mass beside the train tracks, cheering and waving as Stiles goes by.

His face stretches into a grin as Stiles can't help but raise his hand and wave back. Perhaps if they really like him, they won't want to see him die in the arena. Stiles can only hope.

John claps him on the shoulder with a bittersweet look on his face at Stiles' waving. He raises his own hand and waves to them. They must make a good picture, father and son united in the face of the Games that might pull them apart.

When the train comes to a stop in an underground industrial looking compound Stiles drops his hand and sighs. Heather's been collected off the bathroom floor, but she smells like a distillery standing next to him. Stiles can't help but wrap an arm around her waist and help her from the train and onto the ground outside.

Finstock claps his hands together excitedly, jabbering on to John and Heather's aunt about image while a group of Peacekeepers in their while uniforms collect Stiles and Heather. They're both led down a long hallway lined with doors. Eventually Stiles is deposited into a room with metal walls and a table that looks like it belongs in a doctor's office.

He's told to wait inside and wonders briefly if this will mean he's going to have some kind of examination before the Games. It's a few minutes later that the door opens while Stiles is peering through the cabinets at the various bottles of bright colored liquid lining them.

Stiles jumps down from where he'd been sitting on the metal countertop as a woman dressed in a blue smock walks into the room. She looks around before she spots him, narrowing a set of green eyes at him. "You think if they were going to pair me with anyone before I head into the arena, they would have picked someone who'd actually heard of conditioner." She looks Stiles up and down, twirling a lock of strawberry blonde hair around her finger as she does.

He recognizes her instantly as the girl who had confidently made her way forward yesterday when her name was called in District 8. Lydia Martin is apparently his stylist.

"Well," Lydia says, touching her chin as she considers him. "At least show me what we're working with."

Stiles gives her a wide-eyed look and wonders if he's supposed to start undoing his belt or something.

"Figures they'd give me one who doesn't speak." Lydia says. She snaps her fingers at him and makes a twirling motion with her hand. "Give us a spin." Stiles blushes and begrudgingly moves to spin around slowly for her. "Oh sweetie, you have the tiniest butt I have ever seen."

Stiles grabs his own butt out of defense and spins the rest of the way around to face her, "It's not tiny, it's proportional." he argues, "It suits my frame!"

Lydia raises a silent eyebrow before she bursts out laughing. "Alright sweetie, whatever you say. Let's have a chat, shall we."

She sits down on a stool and he jumps up to sit on the counter again. "Shouldn't you be meeting with your stylist?" Stiles asks.

Lydia scoffs, "Please, I'd already agreed to be a stylist with the Games before that Quarter Quell announcement took place. I threatened to leave them high and dry unless I got to act as my own stylist as well." She shrugs as though it's a completely normal think to demand of the same Capitol who's sending her to the Games. "And so I suspect they're a bit angry with me, because otherwise they would have given me 4 like I asked them to."

Stiles shrugs. "Sorry?" he offers as a way to make up for it.

"Oh please," Lydia says, dismissing him. "This just means you and I are going to prove them wrong, okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, "Okay." 

Lydia hands him a bunch of bottles of shampoo and conditioner and something she calls body gelato before she pushes him into the adjoining bathroom. She tells him not to come out until he's squeaky clean and conditioned.

Stiles is grateful for the time alone while he stands in the shower to assess the Lydia situation. He's in the unique position of being in contact with another tribute before they enter the arena. This could be the perfect time to try to form an alliance with her and gain her trust. It strikes Stiles that attachments in the arena might mean that he'll be forced to fight Lydia before he can claim victory.

There can only be one winner and in the end it has to be Stiles. He doesn't know if he could team up with anyone knowing that in order to be the victor he'll have to either kill them or face being betrayed.

He returns to her a little while later with a towel wrapped around his waist. Lydia considers him with her head tilted, taking in his stomach and the set of his shoulders. She seems to approve of what she sees for once.

"I can work with this." Lydia says, clapping. Stiles feels more worried than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Stiles and Heather go on a little chariot ride.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are appreciated!
> 
> If you have questions about anything going on, I would be happy to answer them!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our protagonist goes on a chariot ride through the Capitol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now this chapter is un-betaed. All mistakes are my own! But I have read through it about 20 times on my own, and read it aloud to my beautiful Beta.
> 
> I hope to post 1 chapter per week perhaps on Wednesday. But I won't nail down a schedule until I know what I have going on at work.
> 
> Heed this warning: This fic is full of spoilers for The Hunger Games. If you haven't read the books or seen the movie, and you don't want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn't read this. Because it will totally spoil a bunch of that awesome series for you. If you're feeling adventurous and decide that you want to go ahead and read my fic with my background, the Hunger Games wikipedia entry can be incredibly informing about the background of the world this story takes place in. There's a lot of terminology in this fic that I took from The Hunger Games, so that could be confusing if you haven't read the books.
> 
> Side note (a few words about death in this fic): As this story takes place in the Hunger Games universe, I think it's important that there is a sense of danger towards Stiles and the rest of the tributes in the Games. That being said. People will be put into mortal peril over and over again. People will die. I can tell you right now that the Teen Wolf characters who die will not die in vain. There's a method to my madness here. The lives of these characters aren't something that I take for granted.
> 
> Katniss' story would not have been as powerful had she not gone through the loss that she went through over the course of the books. On that same note, I think that loyalty, love, and loss are the three things that this fic orbits around the most.
> 
> This story runs parallel to the events of The Hunger Games in many ways, but in no way does that mean that some characters I have drawn a parallel between will die as they might have in the books. There will be a complete divergence from the canon of The Hunger Games at a point very early in the Games!
> 
> Please just stick with me. At this point I am incredibly invested in this fic. I am already trying to suss out the sequel to this fic and The Victor's Heir draft isn't even half way done. I just hope that the worry that some characters will die is not going to put people off of this fic. Because I think we've all learned from Teen Wolf and from the Hunger Games that the death of a character is painful, but it can be used as a way to give the story more meaning.
> 
> Obviously I don't own The Hunger Games, or Teen Wolf. This is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head.

Stiles pulls at the tight collar of the black bodysuit that Lydia somehow forced him into about an hour ago. Since then she's been styling his hair to within an inch of its life and applying makeup to his face, much to his displeasure.

Still, when Lydia turns the mirror towards him so that he can inspect himself, Stiles admits that he looks pretty good. Lydia's used some kind of sticky solution to make his hair pull away from his face in short tousled waves. When he shakes his head back and forth, it doesn't budge.

Stiles had balked a bit when Lydia came at him with a power-puff of vaguely glittery white stuff that she spread all across his face but it doesn't look as bad as he had thought it would. Lydia had said that it would look amazing when they took the chariots through the city for the presentation to Silver.

She even carefully lined his eyes with black and made him run a wand of heavy feeling stuff through his eyelashes, much to his annoyance. The stuff makes his eyes feel heavy, like they're too much of an effort to keep open.

Lydia pokes him in the back, and he stands up straight just as she had instructed him to over and over again while they had been getting him ready.

"The Peacekeepers will come to collect you in a little bit." Lydia says, walking to the door. She smirks when she looks back at him. "I have to go get ready, just be sure you don't forget your cloak."

Stiles nods absently at her. She smiles widely at him, clearly pleased with her own work and taking it in for the last time before she goes to put on her own costume.

The outfits each tribute wears are supposed to represent the industry that their district contributes the most to Panem. Typically this meant that the tributes from 12 dressed as coal miners complete with glittering helmets and gold pickaxes.

Or sometimes were covered in black coal dust, not much else and shoved into the spotlight.

It seems that Lydia has been thinking about District 12 in a different way. When she had explained the costume to Stiles, he could hardly believe her.

"People forget," Lydia said, "the most beautiful things come from the ground. Gems like sapphires and diamonds don't spring for the earth perfectly cut and glittering. They're covered in dirt, require cutting and polishing before they're fit for display. I want to show Panem that before I go to the Games." Lydia had said, holding his face while she painted black close to his eyelashes.

Stiles had just stared up at her, unable to move his face as she held it in her strong grasp. "Heather's stylist is pretty much a complete lost cause." Lydia said, "So it was easy enough to convince him to go along with me. Otherwise you two were going to be presented covered in black dust and not much else. “ Stiles frowned dramatically at that, glad that he wouldn't have to be presented to the President almost naked. That was too much like a nightmare to be okay. “And as much as I think it would be entertaining to watch you blush your way through your makeup, I decided that your costume would be my masterpiece."

And then she promptly told him to shut up so that they could muscle him into the tight costume he wore at that moment. It took a lot of Stiles leaning against the wall and sucking in his stomach with everything he had, but somehow they made it work.

Stiles collects the cape that Lydia brought him when the Peacekeepers come to take him to where the chariots are waiting. He's clearly the last one being brought out, as all of the other tributes are in the stables with their stylists fawning over them as they prepare to go.

Lydia runs to his side once he arrives. She's dressed in a flowing golden gown with braided straps and a long train that's sure to trail after the chariot she'll be standing in. District 8 is famous for it's textiles, so it would make sense for her not to have to dress in one of the more literal costumes that the other tributes are forced to wear.

She frets over his hair some more as Stiles turns his head this way and that to take in the other tributes. This is the first time he's seen many of them in person. The nearest to them at the back of the line is District 11. The large boy and the girl with him are both dressed in glittering blue outfits like the ones they would be wearing in the fields where they work.

The poor boy in the chariot in front of 11’s seems to be dressed like a cow. He shakes his head at the overworked looking stylist trying to smooth his dark hair back in to place. That must be Scott, Stiles thinks. He remembers the way that his dad had pointed him out to Stiles.

The boy from 4 with the dimples walks past Stiles. If anyone should be practically naked for this, it's him. He's wearing what is probably a completely non-functional swimsuit. It's dark green and matches the big necklace of greenery and flowers that someone's hung around his neck. He's clearly in better shape than Stiles. The sharp lines of his tan abdominal muscles could probably cut glass.

He catches Stiles' eyes as he passes, gives him a small nod and winks. Stiles goes slack-jawed until Lydia smacks him lightly on the cheek. He looks down at her and she nods. "Yeah. I know. Gorgeous." She says, shaking her head. "And now's not the time for that. Okay?"

Stiles shakes his head to clear the cobwebs caused by the appearance of Dimples--Danny?--and tries to focus on Lydia.

"When you get about halfway through to the journey, hit this button." She says, holding out a small button to him. "In theory, the cape should do the rest."

She gives him a sunny smile and saunters to her own chariot. The blonde girl in front of her dressed like a tree glares Lydia. Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder in retaliation and schools her features into the pouting girl that Stiles remembers from her reaping ceremony.

Stiles joins Heather in the chariot. She's dressed quite similarly to Stiles. Her hair is pulled back into an elaborate up-do and she's wearing more makeup than Stiles. So that's something.

But Stiles can tell by the way Heather is leaning against the side of the chariot that this isn't going to be easy. Her stylist is pinning a piece of her hair back into position, and he looks like he's reached his limit for the day.

An announcement tells them to take their positions in the chariots so that they can begin. The first chariot from District 1 is so far away that Stiles can barely make out of image of a figure dressed in white and one dressed in black before two huge double doors open and they're on their way.

Beside him in the chariot, Heather staggers and looks around wildly like she's just realized what's about to happen. Stiles takes her hand in his and holds on. He decides that he won't let her fall. He wants her to have this moment even if she doesn't want it for herself.

Their chariot is the last to make its way out of the double doors and into the blinding lights that shine down on them from all sides. Two parallel lines of seating have been placed on either side of the route to President Silver. The people in the stands are on their feet, screaming as Stiles and Heather make their way out the doors that close behind them with a loud sound.

A booming voice that Stiles recognizes as the master of ceremonies Caesar Flickerman sounds, announcing, "The tributes from District 12, Heather Green and Stiles Stilinski!"

Could they find no one who could pronounce his first name? Seriously?

Stiles shakes off the urge to roll his eyes, and instead he smiles and waves at the crowd on either side. Though he's mindful to keep a tight hold onto Heather, who is staring around with glazed looking eyes but doesn't wave. Maybe she didn't get the talk from Finstock about getting people to like her. Or perhaps she just doesn't care anymore.

Either way Stiles will have to carry this out as best he can. The black cape around his shoulders flaps against the breeze while the horse-drawn chariots roll through the streets of the Capitol towards the training center where President Silver will give his remarks.

Stiles presses the button that Lydia handed him earlier when they reach the halfway point. In his peripheral vision he sees smoke and sparks begin to emerge from the folds of his and Heather's capes. Lydia told him they symbolize the heat and pressure of the earth turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. It's a little dramatic for Stiles. But he'll go along with it if it garners him sponsors.

The crowds on the sides go silent for a moment as the sparks evolve into flames that feel cool to the touch against Stiles' skin, but look to everyone else like they're about to envelope Heather and himself. They all seem to cry out in the exact moment that a great cloud of smoke envelopes them and then they disappear a moment later. 

When Stiles and Heather are revealed again their previously black suits and capes have somehow transformed themselves into the white-silver of moonlight. Like diamonds, Lydia had explained.

The people of the Capitol scream for Stiles and Heather as they pass by, throwing flowers and calling their names as though they're celebrities with years of fame under their belts rather than a few kids from District 12. Stiles holds his head high as they pass through the city, reaching their final destination.

The long line of chariots is circling at the end, near the training center. Stiles gets a brief look at President SIlver standing at a tall podium before they circle to be back. Now the line has joined and become a circle, with Districts 1 and 12 next to each other as the first and last to be revealed.

Stiles and Heather both stumble a bit as the chariot comes to an abrupt halt so that the President can make his remarks.

He's vaguely aware as President Silver beings speaking. But the crowd is still yelling so loudly that Stiles can hardly hear his own thoughts.

Beside them, Cora and Derek Hale are both staring up at the president with matching looks of calculating hatred on their faces.

Their outfits don’t match in the same way that most of the districts do. Cora is dressed in white, and Derek is clad in black. Cora wears a dress with a high neckline made from lace, it extends down her arms to her hands and all the way to her feet. They've painted her face with highlight and deep shadow so that she looks even more severe than before. Derek next to her is wearing a pair of black pants that look like they're made from leather, and no shirt. Of course.

To complete the look they both have a fur cape with hoods that look like they have real wolf heads at the top, resting on their heads like crowns. The capes extend all the way to the ground, they flap in the small breeze. Cora's is a snowy white. Derek's is a sooty black color. He looks menacing, like a predator.

Stiles tries not to stare, really he does. He doesn't think that Derek notices him at all while he and his sister glare at the president.

The remarks end and the chariots form two lines, with 1 and 12 making up the last two into the training center. The doors slam closed after, silencing all of the noise from outside.

It's hardly been a few seconds before Derek jumps down from his chariot and rips the wolf's head cape from his body with a fury that lights his eyes up blue. Derek stares down at the hood in his hands, with the creepy jewel eyes someone set into the sockets of the wolf. His impressive chest expands and contracts as he huffs breaths in and out through his nose. 

Derek's head snaps up to look at Stiles, where he's still standing in the chariot with Heather leaning against his side. Derek's eyes flash blue once before returning back to green. Stiles' stomach feels like it's going to fall out of his body as Derek drops the cape in his hands and marches towards Stiles.

Cora calls out to him from where she's still standing in the chariot. "Derek. Stop it." She says, stepping down to follow him. Stiles is stuck completely to the floor as Derek approaches him. The older man reaches up to and snags the fastening of Stiles' cape, dragging him forward by the throat.

Stiles is pulled forward by an immense strength as he finds himself suddenly nose to nose with Derek Hale.

"Stare at me like that again," Derek says in a quiet voice so low that Stiles knows no one else could hear. "And I'll be the last thing you ever see. Got it?" he says, a growl pouring from him for a moment before he releases Stiles, pushing him back.

Stiles' hands are shaking seconds later when John and Finstock arrive to collect him and Heather. "You okay son?" his dad asks him.

Somehow Stiles nods in the affirmative while 20 feet away Peter comes to get his niece and nephew. Peter's looking at Stiles with something like scrutiny in his eyes and it makes Stiles look away while his heart beats wildly in his chest.

His dad surprises him when he leaves Stiles with Finstock to walk over to Peter. Peter regards his dad with curiosity, as though he hasn't expected this.

When John speaks, he does so loudly and clearly so that anyone in the vicinity can hear. It's like he wants to send a message. "You keep him on a leash, Peter." John says, pointing at Derek, "I mean it."

Peter tilts his head and shrugs. "For you John, anything."

Derek puffs out his chest a bit and his nostrils flare, as he probably smells Stiles dissolve into embarrassment at the fact that his dad is going to confront the mentor of another tribute--a man who's killed over 12 people in the arena--because Derek knocked his son around a bit. It makes Stiles flush even darker as his dad walks back to him.

Peter gestures for his niece and nephew to follow him towards the bank of elevators that will lead them to their respective apartments for the duration of training.

Derek Hale looks back once as he makes his way down the long hallway past the other tributes. The tributes seem to part out of intimidation or deference, Stiles really isn't sure. Stiles does his best to nod defiantly as they make eye contact. His heart beats double time.

Something like that confrontation wouldn't have happened to him back in 12. He's only ever been in one fight in his whole life, and Stiles only counts it as a fight because the other kid knocked him out in one punch before Stiles could even bring his own fists up. Now Stiles knows that little tussle could have real repercussions when he and Derek are in the arena.

In the safety of the training center, none of the tributes are allowed to so much as spar with each other. Very soon, Stiles won't have the protection of a group of mentors and onlookers to stop Derek for coming for him.

It's surly enough to put Stiles on edge when his dad and Finstock steer him towards the elevators. The boy from 10 is standing with the woman who must be his mother while they wait for an elevator. He pulls off his bovine headdress and grimaces, tucking it under his shoulder.

The woman standing next to him might be slight in stature, but the way she looks around them with a light in her eyes gives Stiles pause. It's like she's on high alert even now, standing next to her son. She raises a cautious hand to John when she notices him.

"Mellissa." John greets her, holding out a hand. Melissa reaches out to take it and holds Stiles' dad's hand between two of her own. She gives him a pointed look that must mean something that Stiles hasn't been clued into. Her brown eyes flicker to Stiles and a smile grows across her face.

"Your son?" She asks.

"Stiles." John replies, nodding. He points to the boy standing next to Melissa, "Yours."

"Scott." Melissa answers, running a fond hand through the boy's floppy hair.

Stiles waves awkwardly to the boy. Scott waves back.

He's not sure how they should interact really. When Stiles thinks about it logically, he knows that there can only be one winner. He and Scott are competitors. Still, John nudges Stiles completely in a not so subtle manner.

"Nice uh--" Stiles says, grasping for anything to really comment on. It's not like they can talk about the weather or anything they have in common besides their trip to the Games in the days ahead. "cow. Nice cow."

Scott blushes, shuffling his feet. "It's so lame,” he says. "Yours looks cool though."

Stiles looks down at how his suit is still lit up like the moon. "Yeah, a little scary to be in what with all the fire and smoke and all. But I've emerged unscathed. Which just goes to show you the levels of fashion engineering that we've reached as a society at large, you know?"

Scott, bless him, chuckles at Stiles and his rambling.

Melissa takes Scott and leads him by the arm into the elevator that's arrived for them. She nods at John once. "We'll talk later,” she says as the doors close.

Stiles nudges his dad with his elbow. "You sly dog." he says. John laughs despite himself.

"Your lucky I'm so fond of you, kid." John jokes, poking the shell that Stiles' hair has become. "This isn't permanent, is it?" he asks.

"God, I hope not." Stiles grumbles as they step on to the elevator that arrives to take them to their apartments.

Finstock rambles on and on about the spectacle that Stiles and Heather made moments ago. He waxes lyrically about how they have the penthouse suite because they're from District 12, and the view is worth the trip in and of itself.

Stiles washes away all the work that Lydia did only hours ago in the shower attached to his room. When he emerges in a cloud of steam moments later, someone has removed his costume from his room and laid out a set of clothes for him. Stiles dresses in the soft pants and shirt waiting for him, happy to be out of the tight outfit that Lydia had forced him into. The whole experience of just getting it up his legs had been enough to bring them closer than Stiles ever thought possible.

Perhaps it's that kind of bonding that will pay off in the Games.

Only Stiles saw the way that Lydia sidled up to the tributes from 2 and 4 after the chariot ride. She seemed like she was complimenting the pretty girl from 2 on the tall black boots that she wore with her otherwise non-functional body armor get up.

So it could be that Lydia's plan is to join up with the Careers when the time comes to choose a side. Or she could be gathering whatever information she can from them before they begin training tomorrow.

It's all too much for Stiles to comprehend. He's never had many friends. People growing up didn't find Stiles' abundance of energy or his constant need to talk all that charming. They didn't take too kindly to the fact that he lived up on the hill either, that he didn't plan on going down into the mines after school ended.

Stiles had always planned on going into business in town. He thought he might be able to take over for the old woman who ran the apothecary in the village square. Stiles knew enough about basic medicine to provide what the people of 12 needed.

To be honest, he had thought that somehow he would wake up one day and find himself married to Heather out of nothing but sheer coincidence. They'd been close growing up, both too preoccupied with taking care of their respective charges to take much notice of the boys and girls at school.

It would have been a good life, Stiles thinks. Perhaps it would have been a little simple and boring at times. But adventure wasn't something that you could find in 12. It wasn't something that you could find anywhere in Panem unless you were headed to the Games.

His dad's waiting for Stiles in the hallway when Stiles leaves his room to go to dinner. John pulls Stiles down the hall, away from the dining room where Stiles can already hear Finstock talking someone's ear off about this and that.

They reach a wall taken up completely by a massive window that looks out on the Capitol. Stiles has never been up this high. He finds that when he looks down it makes him dizzy to see the people resembling pinpricks of color below.

"Listen, son." John says quietly, like he's worried someone will overhear them. "I've known Scott's mother for a while now. She's a great lady, cares about her boy as much as I care about you. You might remember from his reaping, Scott's breathing isn't great. He has these attacks where his throat closes up and he can't breathe. It can be set on by stress--"

Stiles nods, "You want me to know this so that I can use it to my advantage in the Games." he cuts in.

His dad falters, eyes going wide. When he looks at Stiles it's like he's discovered that this boy he's been raising for 17 years has been replaced by someone else. John shakes his head abruptly, frowning. "No." he says, upset clearly by the implication that Stiles would do something like that.

And if these weren't extenuating circumstances, Stiles is absolutely positive that this would hold true.

Unfortunately for both of them the last two months has given Stiles the time to reconsider what he would be willing to do in order to get back home.

"I want you to look out for him." John says. "You two, you're not Careers. You're both from districts where tributes rarely come home victors. You and Scott have a lot more in common than you would think. Just--tomorrow, keep him close to your side when you're training."

Stiles nods, feeling ashamed that he would jump to this conclusion from what his dad had said. This is the man who tended to Stiles' scrapped elbows and sung him back to sleep after he woke from his nightmares.

John looks at Stiles for a long moment. "I don't want you to think that this has to change you, Stiles,” he says softly. "Not for one moment. I know that darkness will test you, son. It'll be harder than anything you've ever faced. The urge to succumb to that will be so strong you'll think it's the only option. But it's not." John shakes his head, "I'm not saying this the right way, your mom could have--be the light. That's just it. Be the light that drives away the darkness. Be the man I know your mother and I raised you to be--the good man who refuses to let the darkness snuff out what makes you Stiles."

Stiles tugs his dad to him and hugs him tightly. The man just has so much faith in Stiles, it's hard to believe he could mean so much to one person.

John tugs him away and holds him by the shoulder, ducking down until they're on eye-level.

"Just be Stiles." John repeats. "That'll get you home. Just be Stiles."

If his dad thinks being himself is enough to get him through the Games, Stiles will have to believe it too. He just hopes it doesn't get him killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. Stiles just has to believe in himself and everything will turn out perfectly well.
> 
> Okay. Maybe not.
> 
> Anyway, I know that this is the 4th chapter I've posted in I think 5 days or so. I'm just so jazzed that people seem to like it. But after this chapter I am going to actually work out a posting schedule and stick with it. Because we're getting to the drama here really soon!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has given me kudos and commented on this fic! I was doubting for a long time if I should post it or keep it for myself. With a little push from my Beta and our story times before TW every week I decided to just go ahead and post it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Scott make new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now this chapter is un-betaed. All mistakes are my own! But I have read through it about 20 times on my own, and read it aloud to my beautiful Beta.
> 
> I hope to post 1 chapter per week perhaps on Wednesday. But I won't nail down a schedule until I know what I have going on at work.
> 
> Heed this warning: This fic is full of spoilers for The Hunger Games. If you haven't read the books or seen the movie, and you don't want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn't read this. Because it will totally spoil a bunch of that awesome series for you. If you're feeling adventurous and decide that you want to go ahead and read my fic with my background, the Hunger Games wikipedia entry can be incredibly informing about the background of the world this story takes place in. There's a lot of terminology in this fic that I took from The Hunger Games, so that could be confusing if you haven't read the books.
> 
> Side note (a few words about death in this fic): As this story takes place in the Hunger Games universe, I think it's important that there is a sense of danger towards Stiles and the rest of the tributes in the Games. That being said. People will be put into mortal peril over and over again. People will die. I can tell you right now that the Teen Wolf characters who die will not die in vain. There's a method to my madness here. The lives of these characters aren't something that I take for granted.
> 
> Katniss' story would not have been as powerful had she not gone through the loss that she went through over the course of the books. On that same note, I think that loyalty, love, and loss are the three things that this fic orbits around the most.
> 
> This story runs parallel to the events of The Hunger Games in many ways, but in no way does that mean that some characters I have drawn a parallel between will die as they might have in the books. There will be a complete divergence from the canon of The Hunger Games at a point very early in the Games!
> 
> I am already trying to suss out the sequel to this fic and The Victor's Heir draft isn't even half way done. I just hope that the worry that some characters will die is not going to put people off of this fic. Because I think we've all learned from Teen Wolf and from the Hunger Games that the death of a character is painful, but it can be used as a way to give the story more meaning.
> 
> Obviously I don't own The Hunger Games, or Teen Wolf. This is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head.
> 
> I was going to wait a bit before posting this, but screw it.

It's the strangest experience of Stiles' life to be standing in a room full of people who want to kill him, each of them armed to the teeth, demonstrating their aptitude for destruction and have nothing happen. The tributes are absolutely forbidden from inflicting violence upon each other, while they're inside the training center. It should be comforting. Instead it mostly makes Stiles' brain fill in the gaps in the empty air with visions of himself dying horrifically.

He watches the girl from 7 with long blonde hair hurling axes at a series of moving targets and automatically envisions himself in the crossfire. Boyd, from 11 tosses a massive weight nearly half way across the room. It could easily be a boulder aimed at Stiles' head. Dimples from 4 it seems has not followed in his father's footsteps. He prefers using a deadly looking trident to subdue a series of stuffed dummies rather than poison. Stiles thinks he would prefer the poison to seeing his own organs spilling from his body before he dies.

The most disconcerting thing however is the Hales. They're in their own corner, not practicing with any of the weapons provided. Instead they're putting themselves through the paces of push-ups on the ground and pull-ups from a bar hanging from the ceiling.

Why would Derek Hale need to practice with a mace when he has razor-sharp claws and teeth already?

"It's unfair is what it is." Stiles mumbles to himself as he and Scott take turns trying to hack at the arm of a dummy with the swords in their hands.

"What is?" Scott says. They've barely begun for the day and Scott's sweating. His breath comes in wheezing pants from his chest. His dad hadn't been kidding about Scott's breathing problem last night. It'll be something they have to worry about in the arena if he and Scott end up forming an alliance.

"Them-" Stiles says, nodding his head at Derek Hale as he embarks on what is probably his 1000th push-up. "They've got weapons with them already. You and I are gonna have to scrounge for whatever we can at the Cornucopia--if we even go for the weapons--while the Gloomy Twins over there are armed to the teeth. Literally."

Scott's eyes go wide. He looks over both his shoulders at Stiles' comments. No one's paying attention to them. The Careers are all too busy buddying up around the archery range. Anyone of note is working with a weapons trainer. Lydia is braiding her hair. The physically weaker tributes are all working with the various trainers at the stations teaching survival skills.

"Dude." Scott says. "I'd like to make it through this week and actually see the arena before the Hales try to kill me. Cool it."

Stiles waves his hand dismissively at Scott and resumes his attack on the dummy who has earned his ire for no reason other than being in the way. He raises his arm high above his head and slashes downwards with all his strength. Only instead of his sword slicing through the arm of the dummy, it somehow sticks there completely immobile even when Stiles tugs at the hilt.

He looks at the corner against his better judgment where Derek apparently has been watching him battle with the dummy for the last few moments. Stiles splutters and kicks the dummy in the stomach so that it falls over to the ground in what he hopes is an intimidating manner.

Hale doesn't so much as bat an eyelash. Instead he pins Stiles with a cold blue-eyed stare, raises one hand to rest behind his back, defies all laws of physics, and continues to do his push-ups one-handed with no trouble.

"Well, that's certainly a thing." Stiles says, shaking off the way the hair on the back of his neck stands up. "Come on, Scott. Let's go learn how to light a fire."

Scott scoffs. "I already know how to do that."

Stiles stops, spinning around to look at the other boy. "Without matches? Or flint and steel? Potentially in the rain?"

"Let's go learn how to light a fire." Scott says, walking past him to the unoccupied station where a trainer looks a little bored.

"I thought so." Stiles says, slinging an arm around Scott's shoulder. He's a nice kid, and if his dad says it would be a good idea to look out for him then Scott might as well consider Stiles his shadow for the day.

Scott and Stiles spend a frustrating hour and a half at the hands of the trainer who puts them through their paces. She shows them how to stack their kindling to protect it from the wind, and how to build protection that will stop the rain from getting to it. Stiles knows a lot of this already, but it's good to get some more hands-on experience before they get into the arena. They have no idea what kind of landscape they'll be facing. If it's anything like the arctic of the last Quarter Quell, finding firewood and getting it to stay lit will be a serious concern.

It's a good time for Stiles to learn more about Scott. He tells Stiles about what it's like in 10. Before this he had been training to take care of the animals that 10 raises. It's just him and his mom, his dad left them when Scott was just a baby.

Stiles can't imagine having a parent leave voluntarily, not when he lost his mother after months of begging to thin air to keep her there. If love were enough, she would have stayed.

It's not something that he tells Scott, but Stiles thinks Melissa might have told Scott that it's just Stiles and his dad. Stiles begins to wonder just how well John and Melissa know each other. It seemed like they were anxious to have a minute alone to talk yesterday.

There's clearly a strategy to how all of the tributes are gathering at stations around them. Dimples, Lydia, and the boy who put up the fuss in 5 are all gathered together at the station teaching fishing techniques. Dimples is bent over a lure at the work table, pointing out something to both of the other tributes. Meanwhile, the giant Ennis and Kali are standing together, hurling spears with razor-sharp blades at a target across from them. The older man still wearing sunglasses stands at the wall, near them. He hasn't been working at any of the stations besides the ones that the trainers force them into. Stiles wonders if this means he might be blind or if he has poor vision. It's clear that he's trying to team up with the two stronger tributes.

What does surprise Stiles is that the girl from 2 with long dark hair has shut down each and every person who's approached her this morning. She's been shooting arrow after arrow into the targets at the archery station, testing out each bow. Stiles grimaces at the evidence of her precision. The bull’s-eye of the target she's working on is so packed with arrow shafts that the next shot she takes splinters several of them before embedding deeply in the target.

Stiles wonders if she's choosing to buck the trend of Careers forming a group in the Games to take out the tributes from the less prepared districts. It could be smart considering that those packs of Careers usually end up descending into bloodshed at the first sign of trouble in their ranks.

It's a hard line to walk here in the Games. Because while an ally could very well be the person watching your back, they could also easily be the person to stab you in your sleep. He hopes this whole being friends with Scott thing doesn't backfire for him.

Melissa didn't seem like the kind of woman who would tell her son to stab another boy in his sleep. But Stiles watched her Games highlights, so he knows not to be deceived by looks. Because when it came down to it, Melissa ended up with blood on her hands more than once before she came out the other side as the victor.

While there are certainly tributes who demonstrate impressive skill with a weapon, there are others who've shied away from combat training in favor of the survival skills. Scott and Stiles move on to a station where they're teaching how to set snares for trapping.

The boy with curly hair from 3 is kneeling alongside the trainer when Stiles and Scott approach. He looks up at the sound of their footsteps approaching, his eyes flitting over both of them as though to assess the threat they pose in that moment. He looks away quickly, back down at his work where he's tying off delicate wire in what looks like an intricate snare.

Stiles' eyebrows rise high up on his forehead when he takes in the work that the other boy's accomplished. This station is set up with greenery on the ground so that they can practice working on the snares so that they're camouflaged. It's pretty clear that though this boy might be from an industrial district, he's a fast learner when it come to snares and traps.

Evidently he's talented enough to catch Stiles. As he steps into the training area he takes two steps into the grass and finds that one of his ankles has been trapped. He can hardly lift it to free himself from the tangle of wire wrapped around his ankle and shoe.

Scott stares down at Stiles' foot in surprise. "Wow, you're like really good at this, man."

The boy looks up shyly as the trainer reaches for a pair of scissors to cut Stiles away. Once freed, Stiles plops down on the ground along with him and the trainer.

The boy is wearing the same short-sleeve uniform that the rest of the tributes were provided for training. Stiles looks up from his basic snare to see that the boy’s rubbing at his wrist absently as he takes in the finished product of his intricate work. There are starkly purple and black bruises ringing around the boy's wrist. Stiles looks around briefly just to make sure that none of the other tributes seem to be paying them attention. Scott is absorbed in the trainer’s instructions a few feet away.

"I'm Stiles." He says, trying for his best friendly smile even as he gives a sidelong glance to the platform where the Gamemakers and some of the mentors are sitting to observe the training. The severe looking man that Stiles recognizes from the boy's reaping is staring very clearly at the spot where the other boy's begun working on a new trap.

The other boy casts him a sidelong glance before he answers. "Isaac."

"I wish I could do as well as you with these traps." Stiles says, taking in his own mess of wires before him. "Guys like you and me aren't going to do well when it comes to weapons. We gotta do our best at other things."

Isaac nods his head briefly, just a single up and down motion.

"Is that how you got that bruise?" Stiles asks, pointing at the mark on Isaac's wrist. "In hand-to-hand training?"

Isaac looks up abruptly with wide eyes. When he answers, its with the ease that someone who's used to lying. He deflects Stiles with precision, reaching to untangle Stiles' wires. "This is really a mess. You're using too much wire. You want to be able to keep it short enough that there's no wasted energy."

Stiles nods. He knows a healing bruise when he sees one. The one on Isaac's wrist has got to be a few days old at the most. It's not from this morning and it's certainly not from the Peacekeepers taking him to the train.

The man who must be Isaac's guardian narrows his eyes at them when Stiles looks quickly over.

"You're right." Stiles says, nodding. He'll go along with it for Isaac even though they both know what's going on. When his dad used to be a Peacekeeper he had some cases of physical abuse that he reported on. There was a boy Stiles went to school with who always wore long-sleeved shirts even when it was hot outside. He had a haunted look in his eyes when it was time to go home. He went to the Games when Stiles was 12 and never came back.

There's a silent fury building in Stiles when he looks over at the man again. "You know," Stiles says conversationally. "None of the tributes or trainers are allowed to hurt you. No one's allowed to do that while you're here. The Capitol wants us at our best before we go into the arena. If you told someone about the trainer who did that, I bet they would have him removed from the training center."

Isaac looks very clearly over at the hand-to-hand combat station where he claims he hurt his wrist and the female trainer who's showing Boyd how to dislocate a shoulder. He shakes his head warily. "It's not worth it. I'll be out of here in a few days anyway."

His answer is so dismissive that it makes Stiles' heart hurt. Isaac abruptly gets up and leaves a minute later to go to the camouflaging station. When Stiles looks up at Isaac's dad, he's glaring angrily at Stiles before he turns his gaze back to where Isaac's begun painting his left arm with shaky brushstrokes.

Stiles shakes his head and tries to concentrate on learning all that he can about traps and snares. In the back of his mind he worries that he's made things worse for Isaac when he leaves the training center to go back to his apartments later tonight. Surly if there are other people like their district representative hanging around, Isaac's father won't be able to hurt his son. At least, Stiles hopes so.

\-----------

Lunch is served in a small cafeteria where tables with two seats at each of them are set up all around the room. There's far more seats than tributes, Stiles notices. It must be because the Gamemakers want to see how they'll group up when left to their own devices.

It's unsurprising when Lydia, Dimples, and the glowering boy push two tables together to form a small pod. Ennis, Kali and the man with the glasses do the same. The Hales confiscate an entire platter of sandwiches and carry it back to a table of their own secluded in the corner. Isaac sits by himself off to the side, staring down at his plate and not eating much. Stiles wonders if he and Scott should make a point of sitting with him so that he isn't alone, but thinks better of it when he remembers how Isaac's dad had reacted to Stiles talking to Isaac for only a few moments earlier in the day.

Scott and Stiles load up their plates with food and survey the landscape of tables before them. Stiles nods at an empty table near the wall, close to the door, but Scott is already walking.

The girl from 2 with big brown eyes is sitting by herself in the corner opposite the Hales. She looks up from her plate abruptly when Scott stops in front of her, looking hopeful. Stiles turns away to feign coughing into his elbow so that he can roll his eyes into the ether.

Scott's warm brown eyes are filled to the brim with adoration as he stands in awkward silence in front of her. Stiles realizes that after a good minute of nothing happening he's going to have to step in or risk starvation.

"Is this seat free?" he asks the girl, pointing to the chair across from her. She shakes her head.

"Great, because my friend Scott here would just love to pop a squat with you. At your table." Stiles says, pulling out the chair for Scott like they're going on a date. He's seen John do it for his mom hundreds of times. Scott sits down slowly, like he isn't sure the chair will still be there when he makes contact.

Stiles shakes his head and pulls a table over along with a chair. He's clearly going to have to hold Scott's hand and walk him through this lunch with the intimidating girl.

"I'm Stiles, by the way." he introduces himself. "You're District 2, right?"

She nods, "I'm Allison."

"You're amazing." Scott blurts. Stiles chokes on the bite of chicken he's taken and has to pound himself on the chest before he can clear it from his throat. His eyes are watering and his throat on fire, Stiles takes a huge gulp of water from his glass and kicks Scott under the table.

"With a bow and arrow." Scott says finally. "Really. Amazing."

Allison frowns just for a second before she smiles softly at Scott. "Thanks, uh years of practice." Her face lights up as she twirls absently at her pasta with her fork.

"It shows." Scott says, blushing to the tips of his ears.

Stiles resists the urge to both punch the air in victory and punch himself as he realizes that introducing Scott to a Career Tribute probably doesn't qualify as looking out for him like his dad told him to.

\----------

Stiles is pretty sure that he's made his own bed and now he'll have to lie in it as he watches Allison instruct Scott in how to shoot a bow across the room. After their rocky start in the lunch room, they managed to pull it together and had a pretty entertaining conversation for Stiles to witness.

He's keeping an eye on the two of them from his place at the station where a pretty instructor who introduced herself as Morrell shows Stiles and the older woman from 5 plants from areas different from where they're from.

It's pretty useful to have her going over all these different types of herbs and flowers. Stiles is really only familiar with the plants from his own district. It's a bit of an information overload as Morrell shows them plant after plant, going over their various properties.

"This specimen is particularly useful in an arena setting," Morrell says, pulling up an image of a smallish looking plant with white blooms and berries.

"Is it a poison?" Stiles asks.

Morrell shakes her head. "Not really. It can be, but really only to a small number of people." Her eyes flit over to where Derek Hale is apparently dead set on distracting the other tributes from their work as he pulls off his shirt and prepares for another set of sit-ups on the ground.

Stiles rolls his eyes, because it's clearly working. 

Across the room a trainer yells as a trident punctures the wall next to him. Dimples' arm is still outstretched from his throw, and when he realizes what he's done he blushes, apologizing.

Yeah, abs can be distracting. But when they're on someone capable of ripping your throat out with ease, they're doubly so apparently.

Stiles quickly realizes that Morrell didn't prompt them to look over at the Hales just so that they had a chance to check out the Derek’s muscles.

"It works on Mutts." Stiles says, pointing at the plant on the screen. "That plant, it poisons them."

Morrell shakes her head again. "If can if you can get them to ingest it, but I wouldn't count on that happening. The mountain ash tree, when used correctly can create a barrier of protection against them. Burn it to ash and create a circle around the area you need to protect from them if you're really in trouble."

She pulls out a vial of black powder and shows it to them carefully making sure neither Stiles or Jennifer take any away from the station. Stiles asks her how it works and Morrell gives him an intense look, "There are still things in this world that the science of the Capitol can't explain. You need to believe with everything you have that it will protect you."

It sounds too good to be true, like one of the stories his mother used to tell him about a girl lost in the woods on her way to her grandma's house. The girl in the red hood who poisoned the wolf that ate her grandmother with the purple flowers she picked in the forest.

It's enough to have Stiles wondering if there's more than meets the eye with what his mom taught him about collecting plants.

When Jennifer moves on, Stiles asks Morrell to show him everything she knows about wolfsbane. If Derek looks up at Stiles from across the room when he asks, Stiles stands his ground and refuses to look back at the other man.

Stiles might not be able to stand a chance when it comes to combat with Derek or his sister, but he can prepare himself with any knowledge of how a tiny purple flower might be able to poison a creature as strong as Derek or Cora.

\----------

That night Stiles watches more Games footage in his room after dinner. His dad spent the day making his rounds to the big names in sponsorship while Stiles was at the training center. Stiles won't hold his breath when it comes to them landing any big fish there. According to Finstock, Derek's time spent in the Capitol since his Games has earned him a large group of admirers with deep pockets. He and Cora are already at the top of the leader boards in the betting pool.

Stiles doesn't know what he's done to earn the ire of Derek and Cora, or if it's just how to act to all the other tributes. So far Stiles is the only one that Derek's interacted with besides his sister and Peter. Though Stiles wouldn't count nearly being strangled as an open dialogue with Hale.

When he goes to sleep, he's tired from a day of trying to remember each and every thing that the trainers had taught him. He tries to keep the names of the other tributes straight in his head. 

They moved around the room in a seemingly random pattern as they gathered at various stations. Stiles knows that untangling the web of their interactions will give him insight into who's going to team up in the arena, and who will be gunning for each other when the time comes that trainers won't be there to peel them away from each other.

That's the problem with people. They're too complicated and motivated by too many things like anger, lust, and greed. There are too many variables for Stiles to keep track of.

It's has to be easier to be a Hale, to know that you're everyone's enemy except for your brother or sister. But even then Derek and Cora have got to know that there are no exceptions to the rules of the Games. One victor. Certainly they'd never allow a brother and sister to take the crown together.

When it comes down to the end, Stiles wonders if the bonds of blood that tie them together will be strong enough to counter the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Stiles is impulsive. It's a problem.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and Kudos are seriously appreciated. I'm trying my best to respond to everyone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our protagonist puts himself in danger. More than once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now this chapter is un-betaed. All mistakes are my own! But I have read through it about 20 times on my own, and read it aloud to my beautiful Beta.
> 
> Heed this warning: This fic is full of spoilers for The Hunger Games. If you haven't read the books or seen the movie, and you don't want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn't read this. Because it will totally spoil a bunch of that awesome series for you. If you're feeling adventurous and decide that you want to go ahead and read my fic with my background, the Hunger Games wikipedia entry can be incredibly informing about the background of the world this story takes place in. There's a lot of terminology in this fic that I took from The Hunger Games, so that could be confusing if you haven't read the books.
> 
> Side note (a few words about death in this fic): As this story takes place in the Hunger Games universe, I think it's important that there is a sense of danger towards Stiles and the rest of the tributes in the Games. That being said. People will be put into mortal peril over and over again. People will die. I can tell you right now that the Teen Wolf characters who die will not die in vain. There's a method to my madness here. The lives of these characters aren't something that I take for granted.
> 
> Katniss' story would not have been as powerful had she not gone through the loss that she went through over the course of the books. On that same note, I think that loyalty, love, and loss are the three things that this fic orbits around the most.
> 
> This story runs parallel to the events of The Hunger Games in many ways, but in no way does that mean that some characters I have drawn a parallel between will die as they might have in the books. There will be a complete divergence from the canon of The Hunger Games at a point very early in the Games!
> 
> I am already trying to suss out the sequel to this fic and The Victor's Heir draft isn't even half way done. I just hope that the worry that some characters will die is not going to put people off of this fic. Because I think we've all learned from Teen Wolf and from the Hunger Games that the death of a character is painful, but it can be used as a way to give the story more meaning.
> 
> Obviously I don't own The Hunger Games, or Teen Wolf. This is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head.

It's a shame that the only weapon Stiles shows any skill with is a slingshot, because it gives him zero credit with the more threatening tributes. Allison looks at him a wavering smile as Stiles turns back around to collect more ammunition in the form of small metal balls.

Stiles rolls his eyes at her as though to say he knows how unfortunate he is. She turns back to Scott and shows him how to pull his arm back so that his elbow doesn't waver up and down as much. Mindlessly, Stiles knocks down small targets over and over. He plans on keeping Scott as close to his side as possible today. John hadn't exactly been thrilled yesterday when Stiles told him that Scott and Alison had practiced for hours together while Stiles hung around Morrell's station.

They only have a few more days before their televised interviews with Caesar Flickerman, and then after that they'll be heading to the arena. It makes Stiles' heart beat an unsteady rhythm in his chest when he thinks about taking his place on the platform that will rise up into the arena.

Stiles keeps an ear on Allison and Scott while he takes in the room. It's much the same as yesterday. The Career Tributes are mostly milling about the combat stations while the tributes like Isaac, Jennifer, and Heather all keep to the outskirts of the room, away from the potential gaze of the more lethal tributes.

Lydia perplexes Stiles. For all that she seemed like a smart and strategic girl to Stiles before the chariot ride through the Capitol, now that she's in training she seems more focused on giggling at everything that the blonde boy she's hanging off of says. Stiles watches as she cocks her hips at him, a finger twirling a long lock of strawberry blonde hair around her finger. She claps and throws her arms around his neck when the spear the boy just threw embeds itself in the target 25 feet away.

It could be part of a plan to trick the other tributes into expecting less from her in the Games. Lydia must be smart enough to know that she should join forces with two strong boys like Dimples and the blonde boy. It makes sense to want people who are strong physically even if the blonde boy doesn't seem particularly bright to Stiles. But Stiles doesn't like the way that the blonde boy always seems to be looking down his nose at all the other tributes in the room, Lydia included. 

Still, he wants to know why the boy put up such a fuss at his reaping. He'll have to ask his dad tonight at dinner. That is, if his dad's at dinner tonight. Last night John had showed up much later then expected, right after dessert had been cleared, moments into the time that he and Stiles had set up to review as much Games footage as possible. John had apologized, but didn't have anything to say about his absence at dinner.

Stiles trusts his dad with his life. He knows whatever his dad was working on must have had something to do with trying to find Stiles a few sponsors or collecting information about the other tributes.

The gallery of Gamemakers and mentors is fuller than it had been yesterday. Stiles looks over at them quickly, spots his dad sitting with Melissa. Peter Hale is meandering around the platform with a drink in his hand. He pauses for a moment behind a man with closely cropped hair and bright blue eyes sitting near the front. Peter leans forward and says something quietly to the man.

Stiles can't exactly tell what Peter is saying to the man, but it clearly has some kind of effect. The other man rises, Peter Hale steps back with his hands raised and a smirk on his face.

The man with the blue eyes stares intently at a spot on the training room near Stiles. Stiles turns to see Allison looking up at the man with a hard look in her usually bright brown eyes. She nods softly, looking away to where Scott's arm is trembling trying to hold the bow in his hands perfectly still.

Allison leans in, "Scott. I have to go now, it's time that I go work on my hand-to-hand combat." she sounds apologetic even to Stiles' ears.

"Oh." Scott says, releasing the arrow as he turns so instead of hitting the target, it nearly hits one of the tributes from 6 at the station next to theirs. "I'll go with you."

Allison smiles just for a second until it falls from her face. She sets down her bow and strips off the guards and gloves she's wearing to protect her arms. "Look," Allison says, her eyes flit over Scott's face. "I have to concentrate on myself right now, okay? I can't spend this whole time working with you on your archery."

Ouch. Stiles winces as Allison walks away, her hands balled up at her sides. Scott looks absolutely crestfallen as he watches her walk away.

Stiles glares up at the blue-eyed man who is probably Allison's mentor. He might be Allison’s father even. All of the mentors and tributes are a confusing mess in Stiles’ head. But he certainly looks a lot like Allison. Standing behind him, Peter Hale raises his drink minutely to Stiles before he takes a sip.

So that's how Peter Hale is going to play this? It's not enough that Scott and Stiles are about to head into the arena against Hale's niece and nephew in a few days? For some reason Peter has to take away any hope Scott had of wooing Allison Argent before they both went to the Games.

That just doesn't fly with Stiles. Not when he's supposed to be protecting Scott in the training center and in the Games. Certainly not now that he knows Scott is fiercely loyal to his mother just as Stiles is to John. Scott and Stiles are practically cut from the same cloth; perhaps they even would have been best friends growing up if district boundaries hadn't separated them.

Stiles doesn't know how, but he's going to get back at Peter for this. He doesn't know when either. But that's just a matter of timing.

It's one thing to send Stiles and Scott to the Games with no chance of escape. It's a completely different animal to make Scott even more miserable by taking away his crush before they even get into the arena.

Yeah. Stiles won't be having that.

Scott looks like the single bright spot in his life has been extinguished. Melissa and John are glaring over at Allison's dad from their spot on the platform. They both stand up and make their way to the door. John has an arm wrapped around Melissa's shoulders; her hands are shaped like claws at her sides. Stiles wishes that his dad would let go of her, just to see her go after Argent.

A brawl between victor parents is something that Stiles would pay to see.

However, John does not let go of Melissa. Moments later, Peter Hale has disappeared and Argent leaves with an aggressive push at the door leading off the platform.

Stiles pats Scott on the shoulder. "Come on," he says, nudging Scott to put down his bow. "Let's go work over at the camouflaging station. There's no one over there right now."

"No." Scott says, shaking his head. His eyes are firmly planted on the hand-to-hand station where Allison and one of the large, burly instructors are sparing. "We're going to hand-to-hand."

Scott takes off towards the station. There are more trainers at the combat stations than the survival skills simply because there are more tributes who would rather practice at the combat stations than the survival skills. Stiles sighs and follows Scott to the mats in the center of the room where Allison is already sparing.

Scott takes the mat directly next to Allison, Stiles the one across from Scott.

Ten minutes later as Stiles peels his face off the mat for the fifth time he truly considers abandoning Scott, his father's wishes be damned. Because if he didn't have Scott to worry about, Stiles' body wouldn't feel like one giant bruise right now.

Scott is doing about the same amount of damage to his trainer as Stiles. None at all. Over the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, Stiles hears the soft wheezing of Scott's breathing over on the other mat.

Stiles stands up again to face off against the trainer. She seems a little embarrassed that it's her job to knock Stiles on his ass. They're both around the same size, so Stiles doesn't have the advantage of being smaller on his side like he would if he was fighting someone like bigger. The trainer shows Stiles how to use his speed to his advantage, how to dodge blows to his head by ducking.

Only, as much as Stiles tries to dodge her blows, he somehow ends up flailing into the path of her fists and feet just as often. It's like Stiles is beating himself up.

Minutes later, sweat drips into Stiles' eyes and absorbs into the collar of his shirt. He pauses, a hand up to the instructor to dry his face with the hem of his shirt. He wishes they were outside so he could feel the breeze instead of the artificial air conditioning pumping into the room. It's starting to smell a little rank in here with a bunch of teenagers working out at a fierce pace.

Stiles takes a moment to drink a glass of water that his trainer offers him. His face is hot, like all of the blood in his body has drained there. He feels his heart pumping all over his body, the sound of it echoing in his ears annoyingly.

"Scott. Take a break buddy." Stiles says, looking over at his friend. Scott shakes his head in answer, pushing up from the mat yet again. His longer dark hair hangs in his eyes, which look watery. Still, Scott refuses to look at Stiles or Allison. Stiles might not have Cora or Derek's hearing, but he can certainly tell that Scott's breathing has become even more labored than before.

"Kid's gonna kill himself before he even makes it into the arena." a voice sneers close to Stiles. He looks over and sees that it's the blonde boy accompanied by Lydia and Dimples. "Just means there'll be less people for me to deal with, I guess." Lydia is smart enough to nod along. Dimples rolls his eyes, looking off to the side so that the blonde boy doesn't see him.

Stiles sighs and shakes his head. A quick look around the room tells him that most of the tributes and their mentors are watching Scott stagger around the mat with his trainer. The trainer at least seems to be pulling his punches now that he can clearly see that Scott is fading.

It's more apparent than ever to Stiles that the other tributes are sizing Scott up. Their eyes betray them for their thoughts of how they see Scott as weak. They think it'll be easy to pick him off in the arena.

Stiles needs to do something. He needs both a distraction and a way to give the other tributes a new target once they get to the Games.

For all that the blonde boy coldly regarded Scott, he still flails and cries out sharply when Stiles reaches an arm back and punches him solidly in the face.

Instantly, pain flairs in Stiles' hand and he worries that he might have broken a finger or two. Stiles stares down at his hand in wonder for a moment before the blonde boy knocks him down to the ground in one hit and Stiles' head is spinning.

A few things happen all at once in the seconds that follow. The blonde boy is all the Stiles can see in his line of vision, and then pain explodes across his face. Stiles tastes blood as it rushes from his nose, and the blonde boy keeps swinging at him. Stiles hears a few people screaming and trainers rush over to peel the other boy off of Stiles. There's a dull thump nearby and more yelling.

A flash of blue appears in Stiles' line of sight and then the blonde boy is lifted off of Stiles by a strong arm around his neck. The other boy is thrown some distance away, landing on another mat placed near a rack of daggers.

Derek Hale stands over Stiles, his chest rising and falling as he glares down at him. He reaches down and tugs Stiles up from the ground by the collar of his shirt. Stiles vaguely hears the sound of material ripping as the world rights itself. His head is still kind of spinning and his nose is throbbing. It tastes like copper in his mouth, and he's fairly certain that his nose is bleeding all over everything.

Stiles turns to walk away, but he can't get far because Derek's hand is still clutching the torn front of his shirt. Derek isn't even that much taller than Stiles, he realizes. Hale has maybe an inch of two on Stiles, but that's it. Yet somehow he looms over him in a way that reminds Stiles of being a child and looking up at everyone in his world. Stiles raises his hands to push off of Derek, to escape his grasp. Hale's eyes aren't blue anymore; they're a leafy green with flecks of gold that Stiles hadn't expected. It's ridiculous, but in that moment they remind Stiles of the trees in District 12 on the verge of changing color at the beginning of fall.

A voice calls out, breaking them both out of their silent staring match. "Derek." The voice belongs to his sister, Cora.

Stiles glances over and sees that he and Derek are not the only source of entertainment to the other tributes and the mentors. Scott's on the ground with wide, scared eyes as he struggles to breathe. Allison is kneeling over him, her hands shaking as she tries to assess what's happening to him.

Derek's hand loosens on Stiles' shirt. Stiles runs to Scott's side. His friend looks petrified as he clutches at his own throat.

"Well, is someone going to help him?" Stiles yells at the group of tributes and trainers grouped around them. Drops of blood spray the mat as Stiles yells.

The crowd parts as Morrell pushes her way through with a black case in her hands. Stiles sees an unassuming man on the platform vault over the waist-high wall surrounding it. The man’s long black coat flaps out behind him as he rushes over to the group. He and Morrell have an easy rapport when they kneel down next to Scott. They practically have a silent conversation as Morrell unclasps her case and the man looks in Scott's mouth, then he takes his pulse.

Morrell pulls vials of herbs and flowers from her case. "Stiles, hot water." she says, not bothering to look up from her work as she sorts through her case. "Go."

Stiles stands up and races over to the camouflaging station where empty ceramic pots sit on a table for mixing pigments. Stiles probably looks like a maniac as he tears around the room, searching for hot water.

"Stiles." A voice calls out, Isaac runs to him and points at the fire-making station where a pot of water has been suspended over the burning coals to display a water purification technique. Stiles plants a hand on Isaac's shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint there as he rushes across the room.

He feels like his own vision is beginning to tunnel to a point as his heart beats faster and faster in his ears. The familiar and terrifying feeling of weight pressing on his chest begins to make itself known. But Stiles knows that he needs to do this for Scott, needs to protect him like John asked him to.

Stiles dips the ceramic pot into the scalding water, ignores the way that way that it lights up his hand in pain and returns to where Morrell and the man at her side are tending to Scott.

Morrell tips the contents of the a few vials into the water and hands the bowl to the other man. She carefully tips Scott's head back as the other man holds the bowl under Scott's nose letting him take in the steam coming off of it just as much as he's trying to force Scott to take in small sips of liquid.

Somehow, it seems to work. Scott's wheezing lessens by tiny increments and his face begins to loose some of the paleness that it had taken on as he struggled to breathe moments ago. Stiles sags to the ground as Scott begins to breathe on his own. He's content to sit there, vision narrowing to a dark point now that the danger for Scott has passed.

A hand wraps around Stiles' arm and plucks him up from the ground as easily as anything and Stiles flails against it. The blonde boy, Stiles thinks as he's tugged away from the center of the room and towards the corner. Punching him had been probably the dumbest thing Stiles could have done now that he thinks about it. Stiles took time away from getting Scott the help he needed with the diversion.

But no. Stiles sees the blonde boy pinching his nose and holding his head back as a medic examines his face. Lydia and Dimples stand at his flanks, looking around as though they expect something to try to harm them.

The panic in Stiles redoubles its efforts. He opens his mouth to call out, trying to trip up with his clumsy feet, but the person tugging him away from the group just keeps walking. A large hand covers Stiles' mouth and the world flashes white for a moment. Panic makes him go hot and then cold all over in the span of a second.

This is it, Stiles thinks. He won't even make it to the arena, and this will all have been for nothing. Because everyone is completely preoccupied with Scott and the blonde boy right now. They haven't noticed the figure dragging him to the dimly lit corner of the room.

What a shame, Stiles thinks. He won't get to charm everyone in his interview like he had planned to in a few nights. Stiles will forever be known as the tribute that didn't even make it into the arena before he was killed.

His world spins as Stiles' back is pressed to the cold concrete wall of the dimly lit corner. The hands adjust, one still pressed to his mouth while the other plants itself in the center of his chest, holding Stiles up and standing with just one point of pressure.

Stiles struggles to pull air into his lungs through his stinging nose when blue eyes light up inches away from his face. They fill his vision until they're all Stiles can see. His world narrows to that bright blue glow as his worst fears are confirmed.

For years those eyes have haunted Stiles' dreams. Ever since he saw the re-airing of the last Quarter Quell when he was a young boy, and every year when a Mutt has entered the Arena. They always bring nightmares out of Stiles.

Stiles feels five pinpricks of pain in his chest. He doesn't need to look down to know that five razor sharp claws are poised above his chest, that it would take just a tiny bit of effort for Derek to close his hand around Stiles' heart and rip it from his chest.

Stiles closes his eyes. He still sees blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Up next: an misinterpreted encounter and a Stiles intervenes once again.
> 
> Kudos and comments are really appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now this chapter is un-betaed. All mistakes are my own! But I have read through it about 20 times on my own, and read it aloud to my beautiful Beta.
> 
> Heed this warning: This fic is full of spoilers for The Hunger Games. If you haven't read the books or seen the movie, and you don't want to be spoiled, you probably shouldn't read this. Because it will totally spoil a bunch of that awesome series for you. If you're feeling adventurous and decide that you want to go ahead and read my fic with my background, the Hunger Games wikipedia entry can be incredibly informing about the background of the world this story takes place in. There's a lot of terminology in this fic that I took from The Hunger Games, so that could be confusing if you haven't read the books.
> 
> Side note (a few words about death in this fic): As this story takes place in the Hunger Games universe, I think it's important that there is a sense of danger towards Stiles and the rest of the tributes in the Games. That being said. People will be put into mortal peril over and over again. People will die. I can tell you right now that the Teen Wolf characters who die will not die in vain. There's a method to my madness here. The lives of these characters aren't something that I take for granted.
> 
> Katniss' story would not have been as powerful had she not gone through the loss that she went through over the course of the books. On that same note, I think that loyalty, love, and loss are the three things that this fic orbits around the most.
> 
> This story runs parallel to the events of The Hunger Games in many ways, but in no way does that mean that some characters I have drawn a parallel between will die as they might have in the books. There will be a complete divergence from the canon of The Hunger Games at a point very early in the Games!
> 
> I am already trying to suss out the sequel to this fic and The Victor's Heir draft isn't even half way done. I just hope that the worry that some characters will die is not going to put people off of this fic. Because I think we've all learned from Teen Wolf and from the Hunger Games that the death of a character is painful, but it can be used as a way to give the story more meaning.
> 
> Obviously I don't own The Hunger Games, or Teen Wolf. This is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head.

Stiles had hoped that if it came to dying at the hands of a Mutt that they wouldn't toy with him before they ended his life. Apparently he isn't that lucky. Because he's been standing in the corner with Hale for at least a minute and nothing has happened.

When he opens his eyes, Derek's are still blue and over Derek's shoulder he can see that the group around Scott hasn't dissipated yet.

"Breathe." Derek says.

Stiles would if his body was capable of that at the moment. Instead. His heart seems content to beat as fast as it can and his lungs ache from lack of oxygen. There are spots in his vision now.

Derek lets go with the hand he had over Stiles' mouth, plants it on the wall next to Stiles' head and leans in.

"Breathe." He repeats. Stiles might be able to listen to him if the words hadn't come out of a mouth baring fangs at him. The hand on his chest flexes, pain radiates through Stiles and shocks him back into action.

His lungs expand as he gulps in a huge breath, propelled by the terror of Hale's claws so close to his heart.

"Again." Derek growls at him. Stiles takes another breath. More and more follow on their own accord until he's gasping. "No. Too much." Derek says. Stiles knows what he means. If he's gasping he'll make himself even more lightheaded than he was before.

The hand on Stiles' chest contracts minutely, claws no longer pressing into his skin. With its movement Stiles tries to control his breathing. He takes a long, slow breath. Derek's face is still very close to Stiles' own. When Derek breathes in and out along with Stiles, he can feel the older man's breath ghost across his face.

"Good." Derek says, still looming over him. Stiles is beginning to return to center somehow. Face-to-face with Derek Hale his breathing evens out and his vision returns to normal. He doesn't feel close to the brink of death like he had a few minutes ago.

Derek's hand is a point of warmth soaking through Stiles' shirt. For some reason Stiles fixates on that instead of the fact that Derek is the one who talked him down from his panic attack.

They stand like that for a while, face-to-face and nearly pressed together from knees to shoulders. Derek's eyes dim back to their natural green and his fangs recede back into his gums. Stiles is both fascinated and terrified of this man standing before him at the same time. He's seen Hale's ruthlessness in the arena as much as he's seen the tenderness he showed the young girl who died in his arms during his Games.

Stiles gets no warning before chaos tears through the tranquility that somehow built around them in the corner. All at once more voices explode in the room over the din of the tributes and trainers getting back to business.

Stiles looks over Derek's shoulder just in time to see the door to the platform swing open. Allison's dad, Peter Hale, Melissa, and John tumble into the room one right after the other.

There have got to be rules against this, but no one stops them as they vault over the wall like the man who had helped Morrell did earlier. Peacekeepers pour into the room after them, at the front of the pack is the woman who had been standing next to Silver during his address to the districts.

Derek pushes away from Stiles in a flash, leaving Stiles a little dazed in his wake. Melissa and Allison's dad push their way into the crowd where Allison is still sitting with Scott as he recovers. Stiles watches his dad wrack his hands through his hair as he looks around the room for his son.

Stiles steps out of the darkness. His dad's eyes lock on Stiles with a sigh of relief and then he catalogues how Stiles' shirt is torn at the front and the blood staining the bottom half of his face.

John's eyes catch Derek walking away all the way from across the room. Stiles doesn't even have time to call out to his dad before John is running across the room towards Derek.

It's probably because he caught Derek by surprise, but when John makes contact, he and Derek crumple to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Cora screams, her eyes going gold as she tries to run forward in defense of her brother, but Peter scoops her up off the ground as though she was a child. He pulls her away from the group of Peacekeepers storming towards where Derek and Stiles' dad are rolling around on the ground.

Stiles has to give Derek credit. He isn't so much as raising his hands to defend himself as John tries to lash out at him.

The head Peacekeeper pulls what looks like a metal baton from her holster as a few of her men step forward to pull John off of Derek. There's a moment when Derek stares up at her with wide eyes that make him look years younger before the baton makes contact and electricity seizes Derek's body. He writhes on the ground, crying out.

"Stop!" Stiles yells. His dad is standing slowly, holding his wrist. "He didn't do anything!"

Stiles runs to his dad and Derek, trying to intercede. But his dad pulls him away from the fray with strong arms.

"We warned you, Hale." The blonde woman says, kneeling down at Derek's side. She's stopped shocking him, but he's still shaking there on the ground. The terrified look that crosses Derek's face when she reaches out a gentle hand, resting it on his cheek makes Stiles' stomach drop in a way that makes him think he might throw up.

"Kate, I believe we have the situation under control." A calm voice says. The man who first jumped down from the platform walks over to Stiles, Derek, John, and the woman he addressed as Kate.

The woman sighs, standing. She tosses her long hair over her shoulder and schools her features into a soft smile. "Sure thing, Deaton." She says, putting the baton back into her holster. "We'll double the guard in the training center. Wouldn't want any of the children injuring each other before they make it into the arena."

The man nods. "Exactly what I was thinking." He bows his head at Kate as she leaves with her Peacekeepers. "Training has been suspended for the rest of the day. Return to your apartments. Your mentors and Capitol representatives will be notified." Deaton says, straightening the cuffs of his black coat.

Stiles and his father go to walk past Deaton.

"Expect for you, Mr. Stilinski. Remain here with Mr. Hale, Mr. Whitmore, and Mr. McCall so that we can see to your injuries." Deaton says with an air of finality.

Stiles' stomach sinks as his dad gives him a look that clearly means they'll be talking about this when Stiles returns to his rooms. Allison's dad collects her off the mat next to Scott and they walk to the elevators with the other tributes. John and Melissa begrudgingly leave the training area on the last elevator.

Deaton and Morrell stand with Stiles, Scott, Derek, and the blonde boy while the other trainers set about cleaning up the room. After all, Stiles has left blood all over the place.

They're taken to a room adjoining the training room lined with beds and metal countertops like the room Stiles had been brought to before his chariot ride. Morrell makes Stiles take a seat on one of the beds before she examines his nose.

"It's not broken." Morrell says, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way that makes Stiles' eyes water from the pain.

"Not yet." The blonde boy says on the bed next to Stiles'. His voice is nasally from the cotton balls that Deaton has stuck up his nostrils to soak up the blood. It makes him sound like he has the flu. Stiles chuckles.

"Jackson, I will not have tributes threatening each other under my roof." Deaton says, pressing an icepack into the blonde boy's hand. "Especially not after the display I just witnessed. In all my years as head Gamemaker, I have never had one tribute strike another while in the training center, let alone a mentor tackle a tribute from another district."

Stiles laughs again. Seeing his dad knock Derek to the ground had been been alarming in the moment, but looking back on it, it's probably one of the funnier things that Stiles has ever seen. Derek glares over at Stiles from across the room. Stiles schools his features and looks pointedly away from the other man.

Scott seems fine now, sitting on the bed on Stiles' other side with his legs crossed under him. He looks a little alarmed to have been brought into this along with Derek, Stiles, and Jackson. It's like he's never been in trouble in school before or anything.

Morrell hands Stiles an icepack and then moves on to look over Scott. Deaton checks Derek silently for injury.

When they've each been given a clean bill of health and both boys with bleeding noses have been instructed to keep ice on their faces for at least the next few hours, it's apparently time for Stiles to fess up to what he's done.

Deaton and Morrell stand in front of all of the boys with matching expressions of resigned curiosity. "Stiles, why did you strike Jackson?" Morrell finally asks.

Stiles pulls the icepack away from his face so that he can speak and looks over at Scott. He knows that he can't tell them the truth. Stiles won't own up to the fact that he needed the eyes sizing Scott up on him so they would stop seeing the other boy as weak.

"It's Lydia." Stiles lies, shrugging. "She hangs off of Jackson's every damn word, while other people--people like Stiles--" He pokes himself in the chest, reopening a small scab left by Derek's claws. "Deserve to be listened to, and looked at like they hung the moon. I mean, it just isn't fair that before I go into the Games I'm not even allowed a little attention from the opposite sex just because there's a guy in the same room with a chin like an anvil."

Jackson scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You might as well get used to it, Stilinski. I mean, for as long as you have left to worry about things like that. Which won't be long. Maybe a few days at the most."

Deaton crosses his arms over his chest and pins Jackson with a look. "I meant what I said earlier." he says. Jackson rolls his eyes and lays back with the icepack resting on his face.

"Derek didn't do anything." Stiles says. "He pulled me away from Jackson because he knew I was going to hit him again while everyone was distracted by Scott. Apparently he’s an even bigger stickler for rules than you are." Stiles says, directing the comment at Deaton. Deaton raises an eyebrow at his candor.

It's far too easy to lie, to glance over at Derek like he's annoyed that the other man stopped him from wailing on Jackson. Frankly, no one deserves to get punched in the nose more than Jackson. Everyone in the training center probably wants to give him a walloping at this point. Stiles was just in the right place at the right time.

"I see." Deaton says. "You're all free to go. I'm sure that your mentors would like a word with you anyway. Just know that another incident like this will result in your isolation from the other tributes for the duration of training before the Games."

Stiles gulps and jumps down from his bed along with the other boys. However, he hangs back while everyone else goes to the elevators. Stiles turns to Morrell and Deaton.

"While you're both here," he says off-handedly. "I think you might have a problem with one of your trainers. That blonde kid from 3 has some pretty nasty bruises from one of them. It wouldn't look good, him going into the Games already injured. Where's the fun in that?"

Morrell tilts her head to the side, looking at Deaton. They have a silent conversation with their eyebrows. "We'll look into it." Deaton says, "It could be something in his apartments now that I think about it, lots of sharp corners in the furnishings."

Morrell nods, "Thank you for bringing that to our attention, Stiles. It will be dealt with accordingly," she says. "Keep some ice on that nose, it'll help bring the swelling down."

Stiles does his best to smile and casually walk out the door to the elevators. To say that it's an awkward ride with Jackson, Derek, and Scott would be the understatement of a lifetime. It's so awkward that Stiles has trouble looking anywhere without laughing.

Luckily, Derek gets off on the first floor, and Jackson follows not soon after. When it's just Scott and Stiles the silence breaks.

"I know what you did." Scott says, looking down at the ground. "Distracting them from me so they would pay attention to you. You made yourself look weak."

"Scott--" Stiles protests. But Scott raises a hand and shakes his head.

"Don't lie. I know what you did. And I'm going to pay you back, okay?" Scott says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know how I'm going to make it up to you, but I will somehow."

Stiles nods dumbly. "Alright buddy. Whatever you say." he smiles and Scott matches it.

Melissa is waiting when the door open on Scott's level. She pins Stiles with a look of fierce protectiveness before the doors close and Stiles is off again.

John is waiting in much the same way when the doors open on the 12th level. The only problem is that Finstock is also standing in the foyer off of the elevator. They both look equally pissed.

"A little instigator!" Finstock bursts out when Stiles steps off the elevator. "Is that who I raised you to be, Stilinski? A little instigator who punches other kids in the face for no reason."

Stiles doesn't protest this on the basis that he's only known Finstock for a few days and was therefore not raised by him at all. He takes the abuse from Finstock as his dad waits patiently for his turn to yell at Stiles. 

"And in training!" Finstock yells, getting up in Stiles' face. "How am I supposed to face the other representatives when all they're thinking about is how my tribute is a loose canon?" A look of realization washes over Finstock's face. "That's it. You're a loose canon. That's your angle Stilinski. You're unpredictable! GREENBERG!"

Finstock runs into the other room, screaming for his assistant. Stiles stands with his dad in the foyer, shuffling his feet. 

"I don't think I need to tell you how someone like Derek Hale wouldn't have to so much as take a moment of consideration before he killed you, do I?" John's voice is soft. It makes Stiles think back to moments in his childhood that he had scared his parents by running away or climbing a tree so tall that he couldn't get back down again.

"No, sir." Stiles says.

John nods, clenching his jaw. "I thought so. Stiles, you made enemies today. Real enemies. The kinds of enemies who would probably be happy to see you die by their hand. That Whitmore kid in particular is a ball of anger at anyone and anything in his path."

"Yeah, I caught that." Stiles says, gesturing to how the bottom of his face is covered in blood. "What's his deal anyway?"

John rolls his eyes in what is clearly a move he picked up from his son. "He was adopted when he was a baby, his mother was a victor. His parents died when he was a baby. Jackson found out on the day of the Quarter Quell announcement that the mayor of his district and her husband weren't his real parents."

Stiles winces. It's one thing to have to adjust to the fact that you're going to the Games like Stiles had to. But to learn that the people who raised you aren't your biological parents and that you have a 1 in 5 chance of going to the next Quarter Quell is enough to drive someone off the edge.

Stiles grimaces, "Yeesh. Knew I should have punched Dimples. But who would want to mess up such a nice face?"

John sighs; looking to the sky like it will give him guidance. "Sometimes I think that time I dropped you when you were a baby did some real damage."

Stiles shrugs. "Well I certainly bleed just like all the other kids." Stiles says, pulling at the neck of his shirt to examine the evidence.

John shakes his head, muttering to himself as he walks into the living room.

It's a blessing moments later to stand in the rising steam of the shower in his bathroom. They had hot water back in 12, but not the seemingly limitless supply that there is in the Capitol. Stiles washes the blood from his face, and pointedly doesn't look down at the way that the pink tinted water washes down the drain. The hot water helps to relax the tense muscles of his back and shoulders.

When Stiles steps out of the shower, the mirror is fogged up and the air is heavy with steam. Stiles wipes his hand across the mirror, clearing a strip of it so that he can take in his face. His nose is swollen near the bridge, already bruising is forming under his eyes from the blood pooled under his skin. Stiles isn't foolish enough to think that this makes him look any more intimidating than before.

Absently he presses a finger to a small cut over his sternum. The memory of Derek's hand pressed closely to his chest flits through his mind. Stiles remembers that Derek somehow smelled like home, like the pine needles and fresh rain.

For some reason Derek stopped his panic attack. He doesn’t know why Derek would do that for him. He kind of already threatened to kill Stiles for just looking at him at their presentation to Silver. Stiles doesn't pretend to know what goes on in the head of Derek Hale. He doesn't have the time left in his life to dedicate to anyone other than himself.

Still, Stiles finds himself pressing a hand flat to his chest, watching his fingertips line up with the five small cuts that Derek's claw had made. He can feel his heart beat under his own hand. Stiles idly wonders what it's like to know you could snuff out the life of a person as easily as breathing.

But like Stiles thought before: he doesn't pretend to know what goes on the head of Derek Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: The tributes put on a show for the Gamemakers.
> 
> Hope you have enjoyed the fic so far!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles walks in on Melissa and John having a meeting with two unlikely guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for general notes on death/spoilers for the Hunger Games and Teen Wolf.
> 
> I don't own Teen Wolf or The Hunger Games. If I did, I would be best friends forever with Jennifer Lawrence.

Stiles expected that punching Jackson in the face would have repercussions for him when he reached the arena. Certainly Jackson would be gunning for him now. While the other boy wasn't a Career and wasn't brought up in a district known for having many Victors, blind rage has it's own way of giving a leg up as well as a handicap to tributes who enter the arena with it in their hearts. Just as often as brutal tributes have earned a crown through bloodshed, they have met their end at the hands of a patient and methodical tribute with logic on their side.

Stiles knows that he is not strong physically, but he's willing to bet that through cunning he could make a dent in these Games. It's his only chance to return home, really. He's more like his mother in that way. Stiles remembers his father as the strongest man he ever knew when he was a child.

It seemed like his dad could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and would have, had it not been for his mother telling him that greater forces at work had that job covered. Her calming words cast a spell on his dad, who still struggled with his actions in the Games. But he seemed more content to carry Stiles up on his shoulders rather than the world when she was there by his side.

While she never participated in the Games herself, Stiles' mother still taught Stiles all that she could about living to spite their existence.

What would she have said about Stiles' actions yesterday? Even if their catalyst had been loyalty to Scott, one rash decision had thrown Stiles directly into the sights of Jackson and potentially Lydia and Dimples--Danny--along with him.

Either way, Stiles can't take back the punch the next day when the elevator doors open and he steps out onto the floor of the training room. The differences between yesterday and today are readily apparent to Stiles as he tries to casually walk over to where Scott has planted himself at the station teaching about edible plants and how to hunt for animals.

It's deadly quiet this morning, even with the room filled with tributes at their chosen stations. The small groups of tributes that had formed aren't laughing and carrying on as they had been yesterday. Instead, Stiles is very aware of dozens of pairs of eyes trained on him. Jackson stands out like a sore thumb, sword in hand as Stiles passes him. The bruises on Jackson's face are just as ugly as the ones on Stiles' even if Finstock claims they'll be gone by the Games with the accelerated healing that Capitol ointments can offer.

Stiles carefully skirts around the edge of the clump that Jackson, Lydia, and Dimples make up near the elevators. Jackson very clearly grinds his teeth at Stiles as he passes. Lydia and Dimples seem almost indifferent in comparison. It's almost as though they're sizing Stiles up. Stiles wonders just how strong their bonds to Jackson really are.  
Either way, it's not something that Stiles wants to entangle himself in. Balancing his feelings towards partnering with Scott is enough already. Forming more attachments leads his mind down a path filled with inevitable betrayal.

Boyd and the blond girl with the axes cross their arms as Stiles passes them. If Stiles was a betting man, he would be willing to wager that there's a smirk hidden in the girl's piercing eyes.

Allison stands alone at the archery range just as she had on the first day before Scott introduced himself at lunch. The corner of her mouth raises a fraction at Stiles before she goes back to her work, clearly focused only on her arrow and the path it makes directly to the center of the target.

Stiles carefully looks over at the platform which yesterday had been filled to capacity with mentors looking after their charges and Gamemakers content to assess the tributes. Now only a dozen somber looking men and women sit quietly with Deaton at the center of their group.

But the difference between yesterday and this morning is the overwhelming presence of Peacekeepers lining the room. Every few feet they stand around the perimeter, hands resting on the holster on their hips as they scan the room for threats.

This is Stiles' doing. He knows this very clearly.

If he hadn't hit Jackson yesterday, his dad and Melissa would be sitting on the platform to watch them. Instead, their presence has been replaced by Kate, the head Peacekeeper for all of Panem. The very sight of her makes Stiles' skin crawl.

When Stiles reaches Scott after the longest walk across a room he has ever experienced, he's glad to duck down and sit on the floor with the other boy.

Scott's face lights up with Stiles sits next to him, "This chick is crazy." Scott says, gesturing to their trainer as she shows them a log from a fallen tree. She prods at it with a thin stick, jabbing at an opening in the bark. "She keeps telling me that it's really not that bad, but I don't believe her. It's enough that I've got to go to the Games." Stiles watches in horror as the trainer pulls the stick from the log and shows them the ants clinging to it.

"She's not." Stiles says, shaking his head.

"Oh, she is." Scott says, frowning dramatically. Stiles and Scott watch, frozen as their instructor eats bugs. "This is the third time. Be glad you missed the grubs. Yeah, I'm not going to eat bugs on a nationally televised broadcast."

Stiles' stomach turns over. He raises his hand, "Seconded."

Their trainer shakes her head at them and instead turns to an explanation of the wonder of moss and what a healthy alternative it can make as a part of healthy diet.

 

\---------

 

It seems that besides the Peacekeepers watching Stiles like a hawk, the other change to the training center are the actions of the Hales. Because they're no longer content to keep to themselves in the corner anymore. They're actually interacting--albeit aggressively--with the other tributes and trainers.

Stiles suspects it might have something to do with their uncle advising them that claiming a corner as their own might not be the best way to garner them any allies in the Games.

Either way, it's practically comical.

Stiles watches surreptitiously as Derek stands with an instructor at one of the ranges, spear in hand. The man he's working with is pale and moves his hands around a lot as he talks. It's clear from even half way across the room that the trainer is more nervous to have to be teaching Derek than he would be if Derek was hurling spears at him.

Stiles absently covers himself with camouflage while he watches Derek grimace silently at the trainer. At one point Derek just looks at the ceiling as though he's completely given up faith in his tutelage. Stiles chuckles until Derek's head whips around to glare at Stiles. Derek hurls the spear in his hand at the target standing down range, it hits so hard that the target splinters on impact and cracks in half.

"Well," Stiles says as calmly as he can, turning back to Scott. "As if we didn't have enough to worry about in close combat with Hale, it turns out that he's deadly with a spear too. Give that guy a fish and he could probably beat you to death with it."

Scott laughs despite himself. It's a welcome noise to Stiles' ears. Allison's made no move to join them at any of their stations today. Scott spent the entirety of lunch staring at her across the room while his lunch grew cold and congealed on his plate. It was enough to make Stiles lose his appetite.

A guy like Scott deserves to have a little crush before going to the Games. Even if it results in his face bending into some kind of half-melancholy, half-hopeful stare thing where his frown was tragic but his eyes were moony. No wonder it had put Stiles off dessert.

Stiles can't make heads or tails of a girl like Allison. It's incredibly clear that she's capable of taking care of herself. The fact that they keep having to replace the worn-out targets on the archery range says as much. She could sidle up to any of the Career Tributes and they would he more than happy to have her on their side. Yet she stays away from everyone.

Then there's the way that one look from her dad had been enough to send her walking away from Scott. Stiles would bet his hat that he told her last night to stay away from Scott when it came time to train today.

Why would a girl like that cave to the wills of a parent who won't be there to protect her in the Games?

Probably for the same reason that Stiles befriended Scott.

Because of love. Because his dad asked him to. Because Stiles thinks his dad knows best when it comes to getting him through the Games more or less intact.

And Allison probably thinks the same thing about her dad.

That's a dad for you, ruining your chances of kissing a cute boy before you head to the Hunger Games.

But still, a guy like Allison Argent's dad could have at least allowed for Allison to just talk to Scott instead of ignoring him. It's not like they're trying to run away and get married. That would be crazy. They're both teenagers on their way to the Hunger Games. There isn't time for nuptials. There's barely time for Stiles to learn how not to get his head smashed in by Derek, Ennis, Jackson, or any of the other larger tributes headed to the Games this year.

Allison's dad probably knows what Stiles has been worrying is true since he found out he would be going to the Games two months ago.

Love opens up parts of you that make you vulnerable to the rest of the world. Love has a way of making everything in its presence beautiful, and just as easily leaving the world in shadow when it is gone.

To let love work its way under your skin and into the very heart of you before the Games would be cheating yourself the chance to make it out alive. It would be suicide. Because who could survive when they’re more worried about someone else's chances than their own?

Stiles absently washes the paint from his hands as he thinks back to the moment from Cora's reaping when Derek stepped forward. Stiles had thought at the time that he volunteered in the heat of the moment to be with his sister. But he didn't think about what that really meant in the context of the Games.

Derek means to sacrifice himself for his sister so that she might make it out of the Games alive. Somehow, love has made Derek the strongest competitor amongst all of the tributes. Derek must know that with her powers, Cora already stood as a favorite to win the Games on her own. But Derek has all but secured Cora's victory with his presence in the Games. Between the two of them, the rest of the tributes don’t stand a chance.

Stiles was a fool to think, even for a fleeting moment, that Derek would be anything other than what his blue eyes betray him as to the rest of the world. He's a killer.

More than anything it occurs to Stiles that his only way to pass safely through the Games will be to dispatch the brother and sister. Because coming between Derek and Cora would be like signing his own death certificate.

Stiles doesn’t care that Derek talked him down from his panic attack yesterday. He doesn’t know why the other man did it. It’s not like Derek’s made any move to speak to him today. In fact, Derek’s looked at him significantly less today than he had since training began. It’s comforting to know that when he turns around, Stiles won’t see Derek doing pull-ups and glaring at him.

One moment yesterday doesn’t spell out loyalty to Stiles. Not when it comes to Derek. He’s thankful that he hadn’t dissolved into a hysterics in front of the rest of the group.

Stiles has someone in his life to worry about as it is. His dad. His dad who has invested 17 years trying to raise Stiles the best he could. That can’t all have been for nothing in the blink on an eye in the arena. It’s become a mantra for Stiles. He will return home. No matter the cost.

If Derek plays the tribute blinded by love in the arena, Stiles will just have to methodically use that against him.

After all, Stiles is the child of a cunning woman who tamed a man that believed he could hold the world up on his shoulders. He's the product of brawn and brains.

Stiles will make it through these Games and return home somehow.

He does his best to push the small voice in his head away, the one that calls out to Stiles on Scott's behalf. The voice that asks where Scott will end up at the conclusion of the Games.

There’s only so much that Stiles can do.

\-----------

When Stiles steps off the elevator that day, exhausted from his second training session in hand-to-hand combat, feeling a bit more confident in his skills, the last person he expects to see sitting on one of the lime green crushed-velvet love seats in the living room is Peter Hale. Even less expected is the fact that Allison's dad is sitting on the same love seat with Hale.

Everyone looks extremely uncomfortable about this situation, especially Allison's dad and Peter. Melissa and Stiles' dad are there as well. They all stand abruptly when Stiles stumbles out of the elevator.

"John, lovely as always to speak to you." Peter says, clapping his hands together awkwardly. Seeing him standing in this area that is supposed to be a safe haven makes Stiles uneasy. It leads his mind into wondering what would happen if the other Hales were permitted free reign over the building. Peter tilts his head, turning towards Stiles. "Your boy looks just like you, John." he says in a deceptively casual tone.

For all that Stiles has seen Peter Hale, he never seems to mean what he says from an outside perspective. There are always layers to what he says and does. He doesn't make it easy to uncover his intentions, that's for sure. It's what made him such an outstanding victor.

Stiles feigns a smile at the other man, nodding. "Yeah, it's not just the Stilinski's who have that going on. Derek sure got your eyes there, Peter."

Peter glances over at Allison's dad, chuckling. "Funny too. He doesn't get that from you though, John."

John scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll see you both tomorrow."

Allison's dad nods, "For what it's worth, you got that Jackson kid with a better right hook." he says to Stiles in passing. Stiles smiles despite himself and then shakes his head. No. He's not going to laugh at the jokes of a man who's making Scott miserable during his last few days of freedom.

Peter and Allison's dad call an elevator. Peter walks inside without looking back at John and Melissa, but Allison's dad stops. "Coming?" he asks Melissa.

She shakes her head, wrapping her arms around her waist. "In a minute. Go on without me, Chris. I'll see you tomorrow."

The elevator doors click closed, leaving Stiles in the silent living room with Melissa and John. Sweat is still dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. Stiles sags down into one of the plush chairs in the room, staring up at the adults standing before him.

"Pardon my bluntness here." Stiles says, holding up a hand. "I'm sure that as you grow to know me, Melissa it'll become more and more apparent that I'm not overly blessed with common sense. But I digress. What exactly was Allison's dad doing up here with Peter Hale? Were you throwing a tea party with the enemy? Because if you hadn't noticed, the Hales aren't exactly buddies with any of the other tributes. In fact, I might be the person least qualified to call themselves a friend of Derek Hale. Also, you tackled him yesterday if you’ve forgotten in your old age, dad."

John shakes his head, looking at the ceiling. "Stiles." he says through his teeth. "Nothing is going on, okay?"

Melissa nods. "Your father and I were catching up with Peter and Chris. That's all."

"Yeah," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "I would believe you, but we’re all standing inside a building whose sole purpose is preparing all of your children for combat in the Hunger Games."

John points a finger at Stiles. He couples it with a look straight from the parent handbook on Tough Talk. "Stiles. I've known Chris for years now. Believe it or not, when we weren't watching over our tributes in the Games, the mentors actually grew to know each other. I would call Melissa a great friend, and we've only seen each other once a year for a few weeks at a time."

Melissa smiles, looking at the floor.

"And Chris Argent." Stiles says, pointing at the elevator door that remained closed after their exit. "Would you call him a friend?"

John sighs, "I would call him an ally."

"An ally?" Stiles splutters, throwing his arms up in defeat. "Are you and Peter Hale pen pals?"

"Stiles." John says. Stiles can tell by the tone of his voice that he really isn't playing around anymore. Somehow Stiles has struck a nerve here. "I'm your father. More than that right now I'm your mentor."

Stiles crosses his arms and makes a point not to interject. Melissa, bless her, is backing John up like she's ready to tag in and give Stiles a few choice words of her own.

"As for Peter," John sighs. "I would call him an inevitability. Better to deal with him right now before the Games. That's why I invited him and Chris up here to talk today. I had hoped that you and Scott might be able to align yourselves with Allison and the Hales."

Stiles is completely not capable of stopping his jaw from falling open at the very thought that he and Derek might ever find themselves on the same side. He's fully ready to voice that opinion but it appears that Melissa already knows what he's going to say.

"They didn't go for it either, Stiles." Melissa says. She sits down on the footstool in front of Stiles' chair and leans in, elbows on her knees to talk to him. It reminds Stiles way too much of sitting with his mom in the study of their house on cold winter evenings. "I'm sure you've already noticed that Chris has made it clear that Allison should have nothing to do with Scott."

Stiles nods. "He's pretty broken up about it."

Melissa looks at her watch, "I need to get back down to him in a minute. But you've got to know that Peter basically told your father and I that Derek and Cora aren't going to team up with anyone besides each other. So there's no need to worry, we weren't scheming behind your back. I'm sure your dad would have told you after we all left anyway."

Stiles nods, a sinking feeling radiates in his chest. He knew, of course, that the Hales weren't going to form an alliance with anyone, especially Scott and himself. But that Chris was definitely against Allison and Scott even trying to help each other out in the Games is just harsh.

Melissa reaches out and touches his hand gently. His knuckles are still bruised from hitting Jackson. "Thank you for what you did yesterday, for Scott." she says softly.

Stiles closes his eyes, nodding. He can't stand looking Melissa in the eyes after he had thought dismissive things about her son's life this afternoon. His throat stings a bit when Melissa presses a kiss to his forehead on her way to the elevator.

He sinks into the chair as though his body is made of jelly, looking up at his dad.

"Do you remember when I wanted to build a boat, sail off to sea and become a pirate?" Stiles asks. "I told you that you and mom could come, but that I would be the captain."

John chuckles. "I do, son."

Stiles laughs bitterly to himself.

"I should have gone with that plan,” he says, heaving himself up so that he can have a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: The assessment of the Gamemakers!
> 
> I seriously appreciate feedback on this fic! I love reading and answering comments!
> 
> P.S. I also just posted the first chapter of another fic that is a Sterek 50 First Dates AU!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is evaluated by the Gamemakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah blah blah, warnings about character death and spoilers for The Hunger Games series as well as Teen Wolf.
> 
> Also, I'm now working on another series as well if you want to check it out. It's a 50 First Dates AU. I won't be updating it as often as this because I only have the first chapter done. It's just a distraction from work and this fic.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> This is un-beta'd.

On the last day of training, all of the tributes are corralled in the room they usually have lunch in for their individual assessments in front of the Gamemakers. All 24 of them pack into the room along with at least a dozen Peacekeepers while they wait to be called. It's Stiles' last chance to show the Gamemakers just what he can do before entering the arena the day after tomorrow.

The wait is slow and incredibly painful, especially for someone like Stiles who has trouble maintaining focus on one thing for too long. Cora Hale is called first and then Derek goes for his assessment after her. Judging by the fact that Stiles hears no blood-curdling screams of agony, he hasn't ripped anyone limb from limb to display his talents.

It goes much like that for hours on end as the tributes are called to entertain the Gamemakers. By the time that it's just Scott, the girl from his district, Boyd, the girl from 11, Stiles and Heather, Stiles is about ready to climb the walls.

"You need to calm down." Scott says.

Stiles shakes his head and continues to walk his circuit around the room over and over again. He's amazed he hasn't worn a path into the concrete floor.

"I need to get this over with." Stiles says. Though, honestly he doesn't think that his skills are really what the Gamemakers are going to give him a high score for. He's talked it over with his dad and Finstock, and they agree that Stiles should show them how he can pick off small targets from the farthest distance away with his slingshot.

Unless there are school windows to be broken in the Games, Stiles doubts this will actually come in handy.

Scott leaves for his appointed time a little while later.

Then it’s just Stiles sitting by himself amongst a heavy guard.

Stiles is bolting to the door when his name is finally called over a speaker in the ceiling. He walks down the hallway to the training center floor where he has worked for the last three days on his skills. The platform of Gamemakers is surprisingly packed with people; even the mentors are sitting there. Stiles is surprised to see that his dad isn't sitting in the empty seat next to Melissa.

Perhaps they made him leave for Stiles' exhibition. Either way, it's more people than Stiles expected to see in the gallery staring at him.

Well, actually as Stiles takes them in, only a few of the Gamemakers seem to be watching Stiles at all. Nearly everyone on the platform seems to be completely over the whole experience, and is more focused on the cart of drinks that's wheeled in through the door as Stiles walks in.

Melissa nods at him intently, giving him a smile. Deaton also seems to be paying attention to Stiles. But everyone else has crowded around Peter Hale. Stiles grimaces. Peter's talking loudly, telling them all an apparently hilarious story that involves throwing his hands around dramatically.

Stiles grinds his teeth, staring at the man.

Nothing Peter does is by accident.

He's distracting everyone from watching Stiles perform for them. He wants Stiles to get an awful score so that no one will bet on him or sponsor him in the arena.

It's enough to make his skin crawl.

All thoughts of the slingshot sitting near the range are completely washed from his brain.

Stiles doesn't bother introducing himself. He walks directly to Morrell's training station and sets to work. He only has ten minutes to display his talents to the Gamemakers so that they can evaluate him.

There isn't time to waste as Stiles pulls vials out of drawers and crushes things together with a mortar and pestle sitting on the workbench. This goes against the rules of the Games, and definitely flies in the face of the Capitol. But really, at this point Stiles has had it.

There's nothing they can do to him. Stiles is already going to the Games in two days. If they isolate him from everyone else, it would only be for a day and a half. They can’t do anything to him that would show in the arena. It would go against their own rules about the tributes going in to the Games with a clean bill of health.

Once he's got his two mixtures prepared, Stiles pours one into a glass vial and pockets it for later. He quickly runs to the fishing station for the feathers he needs as well as a long thorn that's supposed to be used for a makeshift fishing hook. Back at the station where Isaac helped Stiles with his snares, he collects a foot of thin bamboo growing in the ground.

With his back to the Gamemakers who aren't even paying attention to him, Stiles puts it all together. He fashions a small dart out of the thorn with feathers to help stabilize it in the air. The inside of the bamboo is hollowed out. Stiles dips the dart into the mixture he's ground together and returns to the center of the room.

Melissa is frowning at him when he steps forward. But all it takes is one look at Deaton before Stiles has made up his mind. Deaton nods his head up and down once. His eyes betray nothing, but he's given Stiles permission for what he knows he's going to do.

Peter Hale is surrounded by people. Stiles waits a moment before he makes his move. The crowd laughs loudly as Hale apparently reaches the conclusion of his hilarious tale.

Stiles has about a second to raise the makeshift blowdart to his lips to line up his shot before someone will catch him. He aims, sends a prayer that the dart will fly true and then lets it loose.

It looks like it happens in slow motion to Stiles. He watched the arc of the dart as it sails silently towards his target. The yellow feathers flutter gently in the breeze as they fly through the air.

The point of the dart sinks into the vulnerable flesh of Peter Hales neck with a satisfying soft sound. Less than a second passes before Hale's hand reaches up to rip the dart from his skin. His reflexes are outstanding.

But Stiles has done his homework. Black veins have already started spiderwebbing under his skin out from the site where the dart struck Peter. Stiles allows himself a moment to smile before Peter turns, fangs bared and eye aglow with red. His face has transformed into an eerie visage that’s half human and half wolf. But the man is half-sinking to the ground like he can’t keep himself standing, clutching at his neck.

In his life, Stiles has done some incredibly stupid things. This should qualify as the dumbest thing he's ever done. Only it's really not. In the last week Stiles has somehow found himself face to face with Derek Hale twice, he's always been intimidated by the other man. He always felt powerless in the knowledge that if Derek wanted to, he could pull off Stiles' arm and beat him to death with it.

In this moment, he's shown every single mentor and Gamemaker in the room that he knows how to injure someone like Peter, Derek, and Cora.

It's not something that many tributes can claim. Certainly it's an unexpected display for the Gamemakers assessment.

Stiles doesn't really regret his decision. But he does think that the training center should be better equipped to secure people like Peter Hale as he scrambles over the tables, chairs and other mentors blocking his path from Stiles. He’s like a wounded animal caught in a trap, incapacitated and yet viciously fighting to get to Stiles. Injured, he’s still able to knock people over in his haste to throw himself the wall blocking him from where Stiles is stand.

Peter’s lost all of his grace as he launches himself through the air. His body is ungainly in it’s path, his left arm swinging wildly while his right seems like it’s hanging dead at his side. Stiles is a little dazed that it’s appeared to have worked so well. That’s why he can’t seem to move while Peter flies through the air at him.

Peter slams into Stiles, sending them both to the floor.

Stiles’ body hits the ground so hard that all the air rushes out of his lungs, and he's pretty sure his brain is rattling around his head. Peter’s good hand, the one without black veins winding under his skin pins Stiles’ chest to the ground. Peter growls in his face, jaws wide as he leans forward to tear his throat from his body. His fangs are two gleaming white sets of deadly looking teeth where Peter’s lips have pulled back in a snarl.

This is how the first tribute he killed in the games went. Stiles remembers it from the older man’s highlights. Granted, Peter hadn’t been poisoned at the time. The comparison sends a pang of fear through Stiles.

Somehow, Stiles manages to pull the vial from his pocket and hold it up.

"The antidote." He rasps through a throat that’s gone dry in fear, though Stiles tries not to sound too much like he’s about to wet himself in the wake of how well his plan’s gone.

Recognition flashes in Peter's otherworldly red eyes. He rears back, taking the vial forcefully from Stiles' hand and staring at it. His other arm is hanging loosely at his side, his hand is twitching minutely as he black veins web out even more. The poison’s paralyzed him on one side it seems. Stiles stows that away for later.

"What was it?" Peter asks around a mouthful of fangs. The blackness under his skin has spread to his face now. It's creeping over his jaw and spreads across his cheek. 

"Mountain ash, wolfsbane, and a little mistletoe for fun." Stiles rasps out. Peter growls. Half of the man’s face is beginning to sag as he loses control over it. The veins webbing out stretch up to his temple, one eyelid begins to slip closed on its own.

Chris Argent jumps down from the platform and takes the vial from Peter when he holds it out. Chris holds the glass bottle up to the light and examines it for a moment before handing it back. "Looks legit." he adds as a verdict. How Allison’s dad knows about antidotes to poison Stiles has no idea. District 2 manufactures the weapons and armor that the Peacekeepers and the Capitol use to keep the rest of Panem in line. 

Peter grimaces as he pours the contents of the vial into his hand and presses the powder to the point that the dart struck him. As if time has reversed itself, the black veins follow their path backwards, disappearing until Peter pulls his hand away and there isn't even a pinprick from where the dart embedded into his flesh.

"Let him up." Chris says. Begrudgingly Peter stands, his face melting back into the mask of humanity that he wears. Allison's dad reaches down and drags Stiles up by an arm. All of the mentors and Gamemakers are watching him intently now. A small smirk has wormed its way on to Deaton's face. He still has his hand raised towards the Peacekeepers who had moved to stop Peter. Good to know that they had at least tried to intervene on his behalf at one point.

When it seems like the moment of danger has passed, Stiles bows with a smirk on his face that his dad would totally call 'pushing it'. He locks his hands together behind his back, facing the crowd. 

"Thank you for your consideration." Stiles says to the deadly silent group. Probably because Stiles has a death wish, he turns to Peter on his way towards the door and shoots him a grin.

When the door closes after Stiles an uproar of people talking sounds from the other side. His dad stands up from where he had been slumped against the wall, looking a little alarmed by the sudden noise.

Stiles raises his hands to stop his dad, "Before you hear anything about what I just did, remember that I am your only son. I'm your heir. I'm your Stiles and you love me despite the fact that I just poisoned Peter Hale."

Melissa walks out of the room along with the other mentors just in time to see his dad whack Stiles on the back of the head with the flat of his hand.

\---------

Finstock doesn't exactly take it well when Stiles tells him and his dad what he did in front of the Gamemakers. Dressed in a bright red suit, Finstock paces the living room yelling incomprehensible gibberish at Stiles for an undisclosed amount of time. By the time that Finstock has winded himself, his face is the same bright color as his suit. Greenberg stands over Finstock's shoulder, fanning the older man with a file in one hand and shaking a cocktail shaker with the other.

Stiles sits through it all silently. He absolutely does not laugh or interject at Finstock. But it's a near thing.

John is just staring at Stiles silently from where he's leaning against the wall. Stiles had a feeling that neither of them would take this at all well.

"Well," Stiles says when the silence has become too much. "You told me that I was a loose canon."

Finstock purses his lips, his face turns redder if that's even possible at this point.

It's clear that Stiles is going to have to spell out his defense here. "I'm willing to bet that none of the other tributes addressed the fact that they're going into the Games against a pair of Mutts." He says, wracking a hand through his hair. “I showed the Gamemakers what a resourceful, smart tribute I am. That's the kind of thing that stands out. If I was you, I would be proud of the instigator you raised me to be, Coach."

Finstock raises a hand. Greenberg hands him a drink.

"Kid." Finstock says. "I can't even begin to tell you how your actions going to effect you when you get to the arena. Cora and Derek will be gunning for you now. You nearly killed their uncle."

Stiles crosses his arms in defiance. "Well, that would make me the first person to do that in, let’s see, forever."

Finstock stands up from the chair he had previously thrown himself into. "Were you dropped repeatedly as a child, Stilinski? Do you know that the object of the Games are to survive?"

Stiles stands as well. "Of course I know that. I'm not a moron. I also know that I just displayed the most feasible defense against Derek and Cora. The other victors don't stand a chance against them if they try to beat them at their own game. They're lethal fighters. If I can eliminate them without getting my hands dirty, why wouldn't I go for that option?"

When Derek hadn’t been intimidating the trainers yesterday, he had been sparing with a group of three of them on one of the mats in the middle of the room. It had seemed that was the only way that they could challenge him. And yet Derek had thrown, flipped, and incapacitated them over and over again until one of the other trainers came over and quietly discouraged Derek from actually bruising the trainers. Derek hadn’t even had the decency to look a little bit sorry, instead he had flashed the room a smirk and walked over to join his sister climbing the tall net that extended across the roof of the room like a canopy.

"You can't just say that Stiles and expect it to happen!" John yells, bringing Stiles back to the present. "This isn't just a game, no matter what they call it. This is life and death--your life and death. You can't plan for what's going to happen when you enter the arena Stiles. There's no way to predict what the other tributes or even the Hales are going to do! You've put yourself in the crosshairs of the Hales, and Jackson at this point when you should have been doing your best to blend in with the rest of the tributes."

Stiles feels like his throat is closing up on him. His eyes feel like they're prickling. "Dad, I won't do that. If I'm going to go into that arena, I'm not going to try to blend in. I need people to love me, to help me. I need them to remember me. Because if they don't then I'm just another cannon blast. I'm just a face up on a screen for them."

There's a moment of silence that follows. Finstock drains the rest of his drink and abruptly sits down, running his hands through his hair so that it stands even more on end.

His dad shakes his head and walks to the window looking out on the city.

Stiles doesn't want it to be like this when he's so close to leaving, possibly forever. There shouldn't be this tension in the air surrounding them.

"We'll work with this." Finstock says finally. His voice rasps from all the yelling. He motions for Stiles to come sit by him on the couch. John remains standing at the window. "We'll figure out a way to give this a good outcome."

Stiles doesn't interject that it was a good idea to begin with. They shouldn't be trying to figure out a way to make it work, it should just work on its own. If he had a mentor who wasn’t his father, they would probably be praising him right now. But John can’t see through the fact that his son’s gone face to face with a Hale for the third time in five days. It’s a double-edged sword having his dad here. While John’s telling him over and over that he’d do anything to get Stiles through the Games, he refused to acknowledge that a bit of risk on Stiles’ part might tip the balance in his favor.

He feels like a child and not a tribute or a potential victor. When people do this to him, when they second-guess his plans it makes Stiles feel like his internal compass pointing him towards what he thinks is best, actually does the opposite. More than ever Stiles needs to trust himself. He needs to feel confident. There won’t be time in the arena to hem and haw over his choices. 

“Can you just trust me?” Stiles says to his father. “I know you think I’m reckless and sometimes I am. But I don’t take this lightly. I want this. I want it so much that it scares me.”

John frowns. Stiles used to wonder if his dad used to regret having him. Right after his mom died he thought that being there was a too painful reminder of the woman they both lost. If Stiles had never been born, they wouldn’t be here right now. John wouldn’t be put through potentially losing the last person in their small family.

Stiles was wrong though. If his dad regretted having him, he wouldn’t be this upset over what he did for the Gamemakers.

John reluctantly sits down with them after a couple moments. He puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder and squeezes it as if to just remind himself that Stiles is still there sitting with him. It reminds Stiles of how hard John had held on to him after the Quarter Quell announcement had taken place.

They talk for hours about how to move forward, into lunch and by the time that they should go to the table for dinner Stiles feels like his head is swimming with words and with things that he needs to remember.

They sit down to an awkward and nearly silent meal with Heather and her aunt before they watch the presentation of the tribute's scores.

The broadcast begins, revealing the scores of the Career Tributes first. Stiles expects that Derek and Cora will both score exceptionally high given their skill in combat and their innate tracking skills. Cora goes first, she gets a 10. And then Derek gets an 11. Stiles' heart sinks in his chest.

This will surly mean that the betting will turn in their favor as Stiles had expected. The Gamemakers high rating means that they showed deadly ability.

It's enough to make Stiles feel a little sick to his stomach.

He tunes a lot of the rest of the broadcast out. There are a few surprising scores, like Jackson's low 6. Scott scores a respectable 8. Somehow Isaac scores a 9 and so does Lydia. 

Stiles watches and waits as the other districts are announced. Familiar faces flash across the screen until they get to District 12. Heather's score is shown first. She scores a 4. Her face reveals nothing when Stiles glances over at her. Finstock puts a hand on her shoulder and shakes it a bit, trying to comfort her.

Finally it's time for Stiles.

Caesar Flickerman looks down at his monitor as Stiles' face flashes up on the screen. He doesn't think that he looks stoic like most of the other tributes in his footage. It mostly looks like he's trying and failing to keep his eyes open really wide, the corner of his mouth wavers up and down like he doesn't know if he should smile or try to glare into the camera. It's completely horrifying to think that all across Panem, people are looking at Stiles' face and thinking that he looks constipated.

"Finally, Stiles Stilinski from District 12," Caesar says, reading from the monitor casually. He pauses, turning to face the screen dramatically to read the score. "The judges give Stiles--" But then the man just blinks at the screen as though he can't believe what he's reading.

Stiles wants to curl up in a ball and die. Because this definitely means that he has scored the lowest of the day. And why wouldn't he? He poisoned the mentor of another district--Derek Hale's uncle.

The silence breaks after what seems like an eternity. "The judges give Stiles a 12." Caesar says, his voice rising dramatically at the end in surprise. Caesar’s purple eyebrows rise up so high on his forehead that they practically touch his hairline. His face cracks into a comically wide grin, displaying two lines of blindly white and straight teeth.

Stiles leaps off the couch and points at the screen. His dad whoops and jumps up as well. Finstock curses under his breath, his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, when I shot Peter Hale with a poisoned dart this afternoon, did he knock my head against the ground so hard that I passed out? This isn't a reality that I normally live in. This doesn't happen to Stiles." Stiles says, poking himself in the chest to demonstrate.

His dad gathers him up in a bone-crushing hug for at least a full minute as the broadcast wraps up. Stiles closes his eyes and allows himself a moment of congratulations inside his own head.

When he opens his eyes and looks down, he sees Heather staring at him with empty blue eyes from her place still on the couch. Stiles pushes his dad away in as sensitive a manner as he can muster. This is pushing it on the scumbag scale for Stiles. Not only did he score triple what Heather scored, but he had also celebrated in front of her.

There had been a dance and everything.

Stiles stares at his own feet while Finstock walks around the room, patting his various assistants on the back as he does. "Always knew you had it in you." Finstock says, pointing at Stiles with a twinkle in his eyes. He yells at Greenberg to gather a round of shots.

Stiles watches Heather's back as she retreats to her room, probably for the night. He feels a pang of guilt for not trying to do more to get her through training. He knows the Finstock has spent time with her trying to coach her through the evaluation like he did with Stiles. A dark voice in Stile whispers that Heather has given up.

Two months ago she checked out from reality. Tomorrow night she'll appear in her interview with Caesar and then the Games will begin the next day.

Time is running out for all of them. Especially Heather. Because as much as Stiles has been planning how he will get through the Games in order to return home, Heather has accepted her death. She's been apathetic toward the whole week of training and Finstock's advice has gone mostly unfollowed by her.

When it comes to the Hunger Games for Stiles, they've proven their namesake. Because Stiles really has the hunger to survive. He's starving, ready to fill his belly with whatever it takes.

Stiles will be the one to hear the 23 canons blasts go off. And when they broadcast the faces of the other tributes onto the sky of their arena, Stiles will thank them for their sacrifice. He will go home and make a new tradition of carving the initials of all the tributes into the tree in front of his house, not just Heather's.

He will remember them. Stiles will try to live a life so grand that it fulfills those cut short in the arena. He has to.

There’s just no other option for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Stiles is somehow finds himself disliking Derek even more, if that's even possible. The Interviews happen.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Feedback is awesome!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There no words to explain just how confused Stiles is by Derek's interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter 1 for warnings regarding spoilers for TW and The Hunger Games. Also for warnings regarding character death!
> 
> I don't own TW or THG. If I owned them I obviously would have made sure that Isaac had had scarf on for the coldest night of the year two weeks ago.
> 
> Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

When he wakes up that morning, Stiles keeps his eyes closed for a few moments longer than usual. He lays in the silence and tries to pretend that he's back home, if even for a moment. And he's not even really fooling himself.

But if he tries hard enough, maybe he can imagine he can hear the sound of his dad puttering around the kitchen and the sparrows who built their next in the tree by his bedroom window. He breathes in the smell of clean linen and imagines it as the wood smoke from the stove downstairs or even better, he thinks of the smell of old paper and book glue from his father's study.

The mattress under him is far softer than the one back at home, that's probably the only thing that he prefers from the Capitol compared to back home.

Stiles blinks his eyes open and walks to the bathroom to splash water on his face before he gets dressed and goes to meet his dad for their last training session before the Games.

Learning how to dislocate a shoulder was definitely easier than trying to figure out how to charm an audience during his interview. After breakfast, his dad quizzes him over and over on the kinds of questions that Caesar will be asking him tonight.

Stiles should know this from years of his years of experience sassing his teachers in school, but it's not as easy as one would think to turn on charm at the drop of a hat.

On Stiles' third attempt to tell a simple story about his childhood that somehow segues into a rant about the lack of quality pens and pencils in District 12, he has to sit down before his brain explodes.

John doesn't look much better as he shuffles through his cards with questions on them. "I've done this 20 times,” he says, staring down at his hands. "It's never seemed more like I'm doing everything wrong than it does right now."

Stiles sighs and shakes his head, trying to clear out all the random thoughts. "I don't think this is going to help,” he says. He's not the kind of guy who can prepare. He either knows things or he doesn't. It's probably most of the reason that he was told off in school.

They end up abandoning practicing for the interview all together. Stiles is probably the only tribute right now who isn't up to their ears in interview prep. Stiles bets that Scott has his hands full with Melissa. Peter Hale is probably bribing Cora and Derek to smile with bacon or chocolate.

It's better this way though, Stiles thinks. He and his dad sit in the living room and they just talk for hours about nothing, about home, about the Games, and finally they talk about his mom. She doesn’t come up in conversation usually. It hurts Stiles and his dad to talk about her. For the last 2 months there hasn’t been time for either of them to not be focused on preparing for the Games.

"Your mother," John begins, looking out the window at the sky stretching out infinitely before them. "She was a marvel. Really. Smartest girl I ever knew with the worst taste in men. When I came back from the Games I was changed. I locked myself away in the house that the Capitol gave me. I turned away everyone I knew, my family included, because I was ashamed of what I had done."

Stiles stretches out on the plush carpet of the living room and just listens. He's only ever heard bits and pieces of this story. If his dad is offering the whole thing, he wants to collect in his mind forever. It feels important that they do this now because there’s a chance that John won’t be able to tell him this story ever again. Just another reason Stiles has to put him shoulder to the wall and just get through the Games tomorrow.

"Your mom was a few years younger than me." John says, "But she was so smart that she was in my grade. When I got back, I stopped going to school all together. By the way, she would have killed me for not making you go back to school for the last two months, Stiles. She started showing up at the house every day. She brought my assignments from my teachers and left them on the doorstep. She wouldn't knock or anything, she would just leave them there under a rock."

His dad chuckles as if remembering a part of the story that he hasn't told yet. "One day I guess she just had enough. She just started banging on the door, yelling my name and telling me to get off my ass. I didn't answer the door, but it wasn't locked. So she just marched in, holding this giant stack of papers that she had been leaving for me for the last month. And she was furious with me. I don't think she'd ever even spoken to me before that day. I used to see her in class, but she was always at the front and I was too cool to be caught dead anywhere but the back of the of the room."

Stiles pictures it. He's seen his mother really yell, but only a couple times. And only when she was at her wits end with someone. For some reason he always remembers her cleaning furiously while she was yelling. Maybe that's just a mother thing.

"So I just sat there, staring at this girl who had barged into my home, holding this stack of papers. And I thought she was the most alive thing I had ever seen in my life. Seriously, I was fascinated by her." John smiles despite himself. Stiles thinks it's good that they're sharing these happy memories of mom right now. "How could I have gone through what I went through and this girl screaming at me was the brightest spot of light in my world? I was dumbstruck. Eventually she just threw the whole stack of papers at me and stormed out the front door.

"I didn't think I would ever see her again." John says, "But there she was the next day with my homework. And I'm sure at this point that my teachers had given up all hope of my return to school. She didn't even bother knocking. She just pushed the door open and let herself inside. She made room for herself in my life, really. I never invited her to take it. That was the kind of woman she was, pushy and brilliant."

"Remind you of anyone?" Stiles grins, waggling his eyebrows.

John smiles genuinely, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkle.

"All too much." John says, "After that first day when she let herself in, she just kept coming back. Every day. Even after school ended for summer break. She walked up to the house and pushed through the door. She brought flowers and plants, pushed open the curtains and opened the windows. And all the time she spoke to me, told me about what was going on in her life, about her training with the herbalist in town after she finished school. She told me about going under the fence a few weeks into our arrangement. That was the first time I actually spoke to her. I asked her where the break in the fence was. But she wouldn't tell me. I think she was worried that I would try to run away from the district. I didn't know much about surviving in the wild beyond what I learned in the Games. I wouldn't have made it more than a few days on my own.

"Every day after that I asked her to show me the way under the fence. But she wouldn't answer me or she'd dodge the question. Until one day I didn't wait for her to come see me." John's staring at the sky like he's completely caught up in the story and he's forgotten that Stiles is there. "I left the house for the first time in months. It was August. I walked down the lane leading to town, I didn't even have any idea where she lived. I just knew that I needed to find her. That woman must have had some kind of power over me. Because she was walking up to see me in Victor’s Village anyway.

"I met her half-way that day, and continued to do so for the rest of the time that we were together. We went under the fence near the mine on the edge of town. She didn't even have the decency to make a fuss over the fact that I had left the house to come meet her. That wasn't her way. I was out of the house and that was her plan all along. She didn't need to tell me how surprised she was. Nothing surprised her." John says. If Stiles sniffs into his shirtsleeve a bit, no one mentions it.

"In the beginning I loved her for being alive when all I could think about was death and my part in the Games. Then she started bringing the very same feeling in me. I was alive. It wasn’t something I had been thankful about before then. For the first time in a while I looked forward to something. I appreciated her efforts to brighten up the house, how she didn't feel like she needed to be asked to change things. She just did. She changed me." John coughs a bit, clearing his throat.

"I turned around one day and realized that she had insinuated herself into every part of my day even when she wasn't there. I thought about her all the time. Without realizing it I built my life around her. 

“We were married on her 18th birthday. And to much scandal in the district, you were born five months later. You know about that part, Stiles. But really, she was my partner long before that. It didn't take a ceremony and piece of paper to make it official. Your mom became the love of my life the first day she brought my homework from school and set it on the step outside my door." John looks over at Stiles. There's a kind of sad smile on his face that usually makes itself known when he talks about mom.

"Love means coming back, day after day. No matter what." John says. Stiles thinks he might have practiced this. "It's a commitment to another person through thick and thin. You make them the center of your world and they do the same for you. You orbit with them always at your center. You make each other stronger. Their strengths make up for you faults and you do the same for the other person. When I lost your mom I thought the world even crueler than I did when I went to the Games. But then I remembered that I had you, I had a piece of her with me. So instead of spinning off my axis, I remembered how she made me a better, stronger person. In some ways she prepared me for losing her one day. You and I still orbit around her, around an empty space that's only filled with memories. But that's better than having never had her to begin with."

Stiles nods. He rolls over on his back and stares at the ceiling. Stiles doesn't know if he's capable of loving someone as wholly as his dad loved his mom. It's quite possible in his mind that nothing could ever live up to that epic tale of breaking and entering that his mom pulled on his dad. How could it?

"The world is full of good people, despite all evidence otherwise." His dad says, sighing. "By showing me kindness, your mom became more of a hero to me than any of the victors I looked up to as a child. Taking a life doesn't take courage. Trusting someone with yours does."

\-------------

That man on the screen is not Derek Hale.

Stiles has never been more positive about anything in his life than he is in this moment, tugging at the collar of his button down shirt as he stares at the screen mounted in the dim hallway where are the tributes have been sequestered before their interviews.

The man who looks exactly like Derek throws his head back laughing at something that Caesar whispers in his ear after he saunters across the state to a literal roaring applause. Sauntering. The man who sounds exactly like Derek casually walked across a stage in front of thousands of people, a wide smile lighting up his green eyes. The man who looks exactly like Derek has crinkles around his eyes that show up when he smiles. This asshole who can’t possibly be Derek Hale raises his hand and waves to the crowd, to which he earns an even louder cheer than before.

There are women and men screaming like he is the their savior in some fashion. Stiles has seen Derek's abs, they aren't wrong. If undergarments aren't being thrown up on the stage within two minutes, Stiles will be genuinely surprised.

Something awful has happened. Something has stolen Derek Hale's voice and body and is using some kind of power to puppet him, in order to make Derek Hale appear charming.

"That suave motherfucker." Stiles blurts out. Boyd gives him the side-eye from his place in line in front of Stiles, but Stiles ignores the other boy in favor of staring dumb-founded at the man who isn't Derek Hale on screen. And besides, such harsh language is totally warranted considering that Derek's using some kind of subliminal body language in order to control the audience.

Actually no, it’s completely plausible that he didn’t need to use subliminal body language, maybe he just backed each one of the people in the audience into a corner before his interview. That would do it.

Derek smiles into the camera like he's trying to get the first three rows of the theater pregnant. Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he might have injured himself.

All the confidence that Stiles had built up while he got dressed for his interview has gone down the drain.

Caesar first asks Derek if he's happy to be back in the Capitol.

"Well," Derek says, smiling still. Somewhere the actual Derek Hale has been locked in a closet and drugged into submission. "I've certainly enjoyed being back. Though, nothing compares to the warm welcome and embrace from the people of the Capitol that I've known on my other trips. It’s been all business this time."

And then the man who cannot be Derek Hale winks into the camera. Stiles half expects women to begin lining up at the front of the stage to show Derek the children he has fathered over the years since he was crowned victor.

Stiles makes a fake gagging sound, Finstock gives the back of his head a smack. He resolves to be an adult and not make any false sounds of vomiting despite the fact that Derek is acting like a completely different personality has taken over his body. Maybe he has multiple personalities and this is the only one whose job is to be charming and handsome.

Caesar laughs, his eyes wide as he pats Derek on the shoulder. Stiles has been watching Caesar Flickerman for his entire life, he's already a pretty intense guy to begin with. Apparently being in the presence of Derek has brought out an even more enthusiastic response. 

"Derek," Caesar says. He leans in as though he and Derek are having an intimate conversation. "Some people, myself included, were shocked by the way you stepped in at your sister Cora's reaping. You volunteered as tribute even though your place as a victor exempted you from the Games. Tell me what was going on in your head at that moment?"

Derek considers this for a moment, a slow smile slides across his face. He leans in on his chair as well, elbows on his knees. "I've been looking out for Cora as long as I can remember. The thought of her going through this experience in the arena alone wasn't something I could deal with. It wasn't a choice, not really, because there was no other option for me. I just knew it was the right thing to do."

Caesar smiles fondly at Derek, patting him on the knee. "What a great big brother you've proven yourself to be. Your example has really affected the Capitol. Quite frankly, we just don't want to let you go."

Derek nods, "I don't really want to either. But knowing that I did everything in my power to keep her safe is all I could ask for." He looks a little resigned at that statement, like he's sharing something that's a little more private than he intended. The sounds of people sniffling and choking up is picked up by the microphones. Derek looks out at them on the stage. The spotlights trained on Derek's face make his eyes look incredibly bright.

Stiles didn't think it could get any worse. But then it does. Because Derek starts to comfort the audience. Stiles puts his head in his hands, refuses to look at the screen as the older man speaks.

"It won't be so bad." Derek says, "If she wins, you'll have another Hale in the Capitol to pamper--which you do so well. Cora's young. She deserves a long life in the comfort that the Capitol can provide to her. It'll be tough, but you'll make it through."

Stiles hears Boyd audibly sigh ahead of him. There are whispers from the other tributes as it sounds like they're panicking a bit. None of them expected that Derek would have the Capitol twisted this tightly around his little finger. They mistook his silence in training as a foreshadowing for what would happen during his interview.

Everyone, Stiles included, forgot about the fact that Derek has had 6 years as a Capitol Darling to work some kind of magic over these people. They absolutely don't want to see him die. They care about him, and because of that, now they don't want Cora to suffer either.

Derek's passing on his place in their society to Cora tonight. When she had her interview, the crowd had reacted well to her. They took her silence as stoicism, and maybe as shyness in the presence of the audience. But now Derek is painting them a portrait of a brother and sister doomed to be parted in the arena. They're beginning to see Cora in a new light, as the potential new center of their social scene.

"That's incredibly brave of you, Derek." Caesar says, shaking his head with a sad look on his face. "Now tell me, as a veteran to this whole experience, has their been anything that has taken you by surprise? I won't sugar-coat it. There's been gossip around town that tensions in the training center have been higher than ever."

Derek laughs, the crinkles around his eyes appear once again in encore. "Nothing really surprises me anymore, Caesar." Stiles feels his stomach begin to drop. "I think all of the gossip isn't completely unfounded. But the increase in the number of Peacekeepers at the training center really just goes to show that my opponents more nervous than they had been in previous years. I don't think it will be too difficult to use that to my advantage."

The way that he's so dismissive comes off as confidence. Especially when Derek intentionally flashes the audience a bit of blue eyes. Their reaction is completely opposite to that of Stiles'. They cheer and cry out in surprise. There is no fear in their reaction. The Capitol is just as enamored with Derek's powers as Stiles had worried they would be.

There's none of the aggression that Stiles had gotten used to over that last few days. He's not growling at anyone about ripping their throats out or threatening to flay anyone alive. The way that Derek's flipped this personable switch has him uneasy. It would have been easier if Derek had trashed Stiles' name or insulted him on stage. Instead he's killing everyone with kindness. It's gotta be taking a lot of control. Stiles nearly killed Derek's uncle yesterday. He'd expected that the Hales would come out guns blazing. But clearly they've learned from Peter. There's layers to the performance that Derek's putting on for the broadcast.

Stiles grinds his teeth and slumps against the wall, eyes trained on the screen.

"You can't blame them for that." Derek says, winking again. There's easiness to him up on the stage. The way that he's leaning back in his chair makes it look like he's having a casual conversation with the other man. He has both hands resting comfortably on the arms of the chair, one long leg is thrown other the other one. It puts him at odds with the black suit and sapphire blue shirt that his designer has dressed him in. Derek's so casual in the face of all this formality. He looks at home here in the Capitol.

Stiles narrows his eyes at the screen while Derek's interview wraps up. Caesar extends a hand to Derek. Together they stand up from their chairs. Derek clasps onto the other man's hand tightly, patting him on the shoulder fondly with his other hand as though they really are friends outside the Games. For all Stiles knows, they might be.

"Anything you'd like to say before you join your sister backstage?" Caesar says.

Derek appears to consider this for a moment before the camera zooms in until Derek's face is all that fills the screen. Finally he nods, and when he speaks his voice is nothing if not completely genuine. "There's a special woman out there, and I don't know if she's even watching right now. But if she is, I just want her to know that I'll be thinking about that summer we spent at the lake."

Caesar nods, his head bobbing up and down as he looks Derek up and down one last time. "Once again, your victor from District 1--Derek Hale!" He says, raising his and Derek's hands up towards the ceiling.

The camera zooms out until it shows Derek as a small point on the stage and the audience is shown. The crowd has risen to their feet, applauding him as he waves and smiles. Then Derek walks off stage as casually as he strolled on.

It takes a good five minutes before the audience quiets down enough for the broadcast to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Stiles' interview and an encounter up on the roof.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I love feedback and answering comments!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has his interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for the notes regarding spoilers and death in this fic.
> 
> I don't own either The Hunger Games or Teen Wolf.

Stiles shakes his head and taps his hands against his legs absently. He's certain that all this nervous energy is going to appear when he gets on stage for his interview. He'll be the last of the evening. It's just as much pressure as it was to go last yesterday for the Gamemakers.

He watches bits and pieces of the other tribute’s interviews, but finds that it mostly makes him more nervous to see them answer Caesar's questions. In particular there's a moment when Isaac appears to be blinded by the lights of the stage and it literally takes three prompts from Caesar before he can answer a question. But somehow it works for Isaac, his vacant stare comes off as more star-struck than scared. The audience coo over him when he stares vacantly into the auditorium, lost in thought once again.

Maybe if Stiles had cheekbones for days he could get away with not talking during his interview. Or if he was like that boy from 4, Danny who smiles so widely through his interview that Stiles himself has been charmed into submission. Lydia as well turns on the charm when it's her time in the chair with Caesar. She answers her questions half-flirting and half-seriously. It's enough to take Caesar by surprise when Lydia launches into an explanation of something called Newtonian Physics that manages to come off as kinda sexy in the end.

As the number of tributes dwindles in the hallway the line that they had formed in the beginning has kind of devolved. Scott's interview is coming up pretty soon. He and Stiles stand next to each other, leaning against the wall in the dim hallway.

"So tomorrow." Scott says awkwardly in the silence.

Stiles nods, bobbing his head up and down too much. "Yeah." He squints at the monitor for something to look at. "It doesn't feel real. Not yet. I still feel like I'm going to wake up back home and this will all have been a weird dream."

"Yeah, I know. This whole thing is bonkers." Scott has the same slack jawed look of confusion on his face as Stiles does. They're having the least profound existential crisis ever. "Thanks again for everything. I didn't expect this week to be as bearable as it was. I think you had a lot to do with that."

Stiles holds out his hand to the other boy. Scott clasps his hand and holds onto it tightly. "About the arena tomorrow, I'm in if you're in. If you want to go your own way, I'll get it."

Scott shakes his head. Someone's coming down the hall to take him to the stage. They're calling out his name because the cue is coming.

"No, man." Scott says. "I'll find you. Okay? If that's alright?"

Stiles nods and pulls Scott in for a quick hug. This is probably the first and last time that two tributes from different districts have hugged the night before the Games. "Yeah. I'll look for you Scott. It's going to be okay. It is."

It feels like an empty promise when it hits the air. There's no way it's all going to be all right in the end. One victor. No exceptions. But it feels good to have this moment with Scott. They're both doing right by their parents by making this promise even if Stiles is still fuzzy on the logic of trying to pair them up in the first place. It feels right though, making this promise to Scott that they'll look for each other in the arena.

A woman takes Scott by the arm and leads him directly onto the stage. Stiles watches his interview, feeling a small part of him is at peace now that he's squared this away with Scott.

Scott plays up his upbringing on the cattle ranches of 10. He makes a big deal about all of the chairs in his apartment. "There are 12 different kinds of chairs just in the living and dining room." Scott says enthusiastically. "I don't even know what all of them are for! It's only the five of us up there!"

Caesar laughs so hard at Scott's story that he has to blot his eyes after a moment and hold onto his side. Stiles thinks it's good that Scott's using the enthusiasm he had in spades in the beginning of training. It's part of the reason that Stiles liked him so much.

Heather's interview is short and sweet. Caesar asks her about what it's been like for her being taken in by her aunt from such a young age.

Her answers are pretty much scripted though, and it's pretty easily gleamed by the way that Heather's eyes don't focus on anything as she speaks. Stiles saw her working with Finstock earlier in the day while he and his dad went in search of lunch.

Eventually it's just Stiles standing in the empty hallway leading towards the stage. He's at the very edge of it, the lights from the set pour into the small area, casting his face in the red and blue tinted lights they've been shining on the tributes.

His hands are definitely shaking at his sides, and it's harder than ever to hold his head up high like he did at his reaping. When his name is called, Stiles steps forward onto the stage and is completely disarmed.

The roar of the crowd is so loud that it's all that Stiles can hear. The lights shine in his eyes so brightly that it's no wonder that Isaac was caught up in staring into them. Like this, Stiles can't see anything past the front of the stage. The voices seem like they're caught up in a vacuum with Stiles at its center. He can't see any of the audience like this.

That's probably better though. If he can't make out individual faces, he doesn't have to think of them as thousands of bodies. They're just a loud darkness to him.

Caesar holds out a hand to Stiles when he approaches. Stiles shakes the other man's hand, doing his best to smile. Caesar is a champion at this by now, he's interviewed hundreds of tributes. It's clear that he could do this in his sleep by the way that he gestures for Stiles to sit down across from him.

"Now Stiles," Caesar says, "I think we can all say that your chariot ride was a pretty unique experience. Your costume was outstanding, tell me a little about it."

Stiles nods, smiling in what he hopes comes off as casual. "Well, I had a great designer in my fellow tribute, Lydia. She's incredibly talented. Personally I think it's great that the Capitol let her carry out with her dream to be a designer for the Games even though she's a tribute. I think a lot of people have forgotten, that many of the tributes had aged out of the reaping pool before they were selected.”

Caesar smiles widely. "You and Heather were in a strange situation, knowing that you were headed to the Games as the only heirs in the District. What was it like to know so far in advance?"

Stiles gulps. If he tells the truth, that he prepared day in and out, it'll just mean that he broke the rules. Certainly he can't talk about going under the fence.

"Uh," Stiles says, fidgeting in his chair absently. He really should have prepared more. It's blatantly obvious that flying by the seat of his pants is not going to pay off well. "Well, It was certainly strange to know I had a trip to the Capitol planned no matter what. But it also gave me more some time with my dad, that was really great. Knowing I would be going so far in advance just gave me time to think about how much I wanted to come back home again after the Games."

The audience coos at that. Stiles didn't realize how sappy he sounded until he gets that response. It makes him sit up a little straighter in his chair, knowing that he can affect them that much with just his words. He'd seen Derek do it, but hadn't expected it to be this easy.

"Now," Caesar says, "a little bird has told me that there's a reason you scored so high in the individual assessment."

Stiles shakes his head, "I'd like the name of your source, Caesar."

Caesar frowns, shaking his head with a finger to his lips. "That is a secret I will take to my grave, Stiles. Just give us a little hint, come on. We're all friends here."

Stiles chuckles. Just friends here. And in the 12 Districts watching? What about them? Has his social circle expanded exponentially before his eyes?

"Well it certainly wasn't expected." Stiles says after looking around as though he doesn't want to be overheard. The audience laughs at that. "And it's probably the reason that mentors will be banned from training next. I will say this, Peter will be fine. The rash should take a few weeks to die down."

Stiles pulls a face at the end of his answer. The audience bursts out laughing once again.

Caesar looks at Stiles like he's surprised by their reaction to him at well. If Caesar knows the whole story, than he should also be well aware of the fact that Peter Hale very nearly ripped Stiles' throat out.

Somehow, by some miracle Stiles manages to pull off the rest of the interview.

Caesar asks Stiles if he's intimidated by any of the other tributes.

"Are you crazy?" Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow. "Or course I am. I'm not an idiot. I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone. Sarcasm is my only defense.”

But Caesar disputes that, reminding him of his high score. "Clerical error." Stiles shoots back, frowning comically for effect.

By the end of the interview he feels like he's full of adrenaline. Stiles feels like he could take on anything right now. Bring it on Peter Hale.

"Stiles," Caesar says, rising. "It's certainly been a colorful time having you in the Capitol. I'm certain that your time in the Games is going to be remembered for quite a while."

Stiles laughs, jumping in. "I certainly hope so. I'll be there to remind everyone of it all the time. You'll be wishing I died in the Games after a few years!"

Caesar throws his head back laughing. He takes hold of Stiles' hand and as he did with all the other tributes, hold it in the air as he announces him for the last time.

"I give you, Stiles Stilinski of District 12!" Caesar yells, and together they stand in the spotlight.

Stiles almost doesn't want to leave the stage at all. He wants to stay there with the eyes of Panem taking him in. Stiles wants them to remember him right now. He hopes that he's done a good enough job that they'll cheer him on, that they'll sponsor him in the arena. 

His dad is waiting for him on the edge of the stage when Stiles walks off so that Caesar can close out the broadcast. John pats Stiles on the back, tells him he did a fine job in his interview. Together to go back to the training center for one last dinner in the comfort of their apartment at the top of the world.

Stiles does his best to remember every detail of the hour that they all sit at the table, stuffing themselves with course after course of delicious food. He wants to be able to recall his dad throwing his head back and laughing at a lame joke that Finstock makes about John's stunted interview for his Games years ago.

Stiles eats until he can literally not eat anymore. He practically makes himself sick by stuffing himself at the end with ice cream and cake. This is be that last great meal that he has before his time in the arena. He wants to take in as many calories as he can. Stiles knows that depending on where the arena is, food could be scarce or poisoned.

Better to feel like he's going to explode now than wish that he had one more ice cream sundae tomorrow when he's in the arena.

After dinner, Stiles changes out of the suit he wore for his interview. He dresses in a soft pair of pants and a sweater. It's late. His dad went to bed after dinner, told Stiles to do the same because he has a big day ahead of him tomorrow.

But Stiles is still keyed up from his time in the spotlight. He's restless with nervous energy that he needs to burn off before he can sleep.

Despite the fact that they’re on the top level of apartments, there's a button for one level higher in the elevator when Stiles steps on. The doors open just seconds later onto a beautiful rooftop garden with fountains and flowers everywhere. The moon shines pearly light down on the otherwise dark rooftop. Even up this high, Stiles can hear the faint sounds of the Capitol celebrating the Games down on the streets.

Tonight they revel before the show really begins tomorrow. Tomorrow they'll sit before their screens to watch Stiles and 23 other tributes rise out of the ground into the arena. And there will surly be bloodshed. There's always a culling at the Cornucopia at the beginning of the Games.

Stiles steps out into the chilly night air, pulling his sweater closer to his body. But he enjoys the cold stone of the path under his otherwise bare feet. It's serene up here, which almost seems like a joke considering that this opulent building goes otherwise unoccupied for the other 51 weeks out of the year.

There's a wall built around the edge of the roof, when Stiles approaches it he vaguely hears the electric hum of a force field. It's to keep the tributes from trying to leap off the building to their death, Stiles thinks. Considerate of the institution about to send 23 people to their deaths over the next few weeks.

He presses his hands against the top of the stone wall, looking down on the city below. It's surreal to think about all the people down there without a care in the world, thinking of nothing but what the new day will bring in the Games.

Besides the hum of the force field and the vague sounds of people below, it's silent in the garden. It lulls Stiles into a sense of calm.

But then as all moments do eventually, it shatters into a thousand pieces as a quiet voice sounds from over his shoulder, very close to his ear.

"Full moon's just a few days away, Stiles. What a shame you won't live to see it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Our protagonist enters the Games. Finally.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Comments and Kudos are seriously appreciated.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles finally makes it into the Games. And makes a strange discovery in the arena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the Hunger Games or Teen Wolf.

The problem with living in the training center for the past week is that it's lulled Stiles into a false sense of security. That's readily apparent to Stiles as he stands on the roof of the building, the tail end of the words just spoken have already been carried off by the gentle breeze.

"Full moon's just a few days away, Stiles. What a shame you won't live to see it."

Stiles sighs, gripping the stone under his hands. "I hope your next sentence doesn't begin with something cliché like 'There's no one here to hear you scream' because if you're going to kill me, I would at least appreciate an effort towards originality."

The soft voice chuckles very close to his ear in a way that sends a shiver down Stiles' spine.

"Oh no." The man says. He's standing so close that his breath tickles the back of Stiles' vulnerable neck. "I had hoped you would expect a bit more from me, Stiles."

"To be perfectly honest," Stiles says, turning. After all, there's nothing the other man's done to stop his movement. "I hadn't expected anything from you anyway. I hope you aren't offended, it's just that I don't know you that well--or well-- at all for that matters."

The man's lips curl into something that Stiles would qualify as a smile if it didn't bare his teeth in a way that looks positively bloodthirsty. He raises a hand to his chest, placing it over his heart as he chuckles darkly. "Stiles, I had hoped you and I could call each other friends before we entered the arena tomorrow."

Stiles scoffs. "Considering that I don't even know your name, I don't think we're off to the best start."

The man shakes his head, holding out a hand to Stiles. However, he doesn't take off the dark glasses that obscure his eyes from Stiles. He doesn't even look down at the hand he has outstretched. Stiles wonders is this man is blind, but if he is then how did he make his way onto the roof of the building? Furthermore, how did he find Stiles up here?

"It's Deucalion." The other man says, his hand still sticking out for Stiles to shake. He lets it rest there for a moment, but when Stiles refuses the man, he shrugs and runs the hand through his sandy brown hair. "I have a proposition for you."

Stiles considers waving a hand in front of the other man's face but decides better against it. It's enough being up here with another tribute on the night before the Games. Stiles doesn't want to risk anything further by potentially provoking the other man.

"What pray-tell might that be?" Stiles asks, side-stepping the man so he isn't quite at the edge of the roof anymore. Deucalion turns with him as though he can see perfectly where Stiles has moved. It makes Stiles even more uneasy.

"A partnership." Deucalion says, one side of his smile curls upwards into what Stiles can only describe as a snarl. "You're a young boy, surly you have a collection of some sort. Something you hold precious, perhaps?"

Stiles thinks bitterly about the collected volumes of stories he's taken down over the years from the people in 12. He nods, and then realizing that Deucalion cannot see him, he decides to answer vocally. "Sure."

Deucalion nods, "I thought as such. You intrigue me. An unremarkable boy from and even more unremarkable district. Certainly there's no great story there, especially considering your father's less than flashy showing in his Games. And yet, somehow you've captured the notice of each and every tribute in the training center. Do you know how many tributes have ever scored a perfect 12 in their evaluations?"

"No." Stiles answers, looking around. Maybe he could run for the elevator, hope that the other man might be tripped up by the plants somehow. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

Deucalion holds up two fingers silently. "Yourself, and one Peter Hale. The first Mutt in the Games and the boy who figured out a way to kill them without ever raising a weapon besides his wits."

It's not a surprise that what Stiles did got out to the tributes in record time. After all, whoever is acting as Deucalion's mentor was in the room when Stiles fired that dart at Peter in the first place.

"You see," Deucalion says, "I find myself in a predicament just as you are. You and I are far from the physical specimens that we find ourselves paired against."

"Speak for yourself." Stiles says, patting his significantly firmer midriff. Over the last 2 months he's lost most of his baby fat.

Stiles has a feeling that if he could see the other man's eyes; they would be rolling in their sockets. "Moving on," Deucalion sighs, "It's important for you and I to form alliances with people whose skills supplement ones we are lacking in."

"Is that the reason you're constantly in the company of Enormous and that terrifying lady with the sharp teeth?" Stiles asks.

Once again, Deucalion laughs softly. "A beneficial partnership for everyone involved. One I would like to include you in if you would join us."

Stiles is speechless. Join Deucalion and the Careers that he's paired up with? Stiles certainly never expected that he would find himself at the end of an offer such as this one.

The two Careers are powerful. Stiles has seen them in training. They're deadly. And also apparently under Deucalion's control if Stiles is reading into the situation correctly.

"You've already got two tributes to carry your camping gear." Stiles says.

"Exactly," Deucalion says, "Now I need someone with a brain. Someone with a vast knowledge of medicine and the weaknesses of a certain two tributes. A brother and a sister. Once everyone has been taken care of, our partnership can end and you'll be free to go about your business. Ennis and Kali will surly go after each other, leaving just you and myself. You're a smart boy; no doubt you'd be able to string up some kind of trap to dispatch whoever survives. And then it would be just you and me. As much as you would like everyone to believe you're just a dumb kid from District 12, you and I both know that strategically you're head and shoulders above the rest. How could you pass up an opportunity to win your Games by simply killing a blind man whose prime years are past him?"

Stiles considers it for a moment. The opportunity to pass through the Games certain that he has protection. To set the pieces out on the board and knock them down with Ennis and Kali acting as his hands on his orders. And then as Deucalion said, in the end power defeats power, ignoring what intelligence can accomplish when set to task.

"I collect people, Stiles." Deucalion says, one side of his mouth curving upwards. "I mean to collect you as well if you would be a part of our group."

Stiles thinks for a moment that he might be going a little insane. Because he's staring this opportunity in the face and all he can think of is the panic that filled him when he thought Scott might have been dying. There's no way that Deucalion would allow Stiles to bring someone like Scott into his group. He wouldn’t see any strategic advantage in Scott. He wouldn’t see how Scott’s unrelenting positivity would be something that could come in handy in the Games. And Stiles doesn't trust that Scott would be at all safe in the company of Ennis and Kali no matter if Deucalion is controlling them.

He remembers his dad's advice, that being himself would be what gets him through the Games. Stiles has never been one of the popular kids, and he’s certainly never turned on the trust that he's built with other people.

"I can't do that." Stiles says, shaking his head at himself even if Deucalion can't see him. "I'm making my own way in the Games."

Deucalion sighs, "I feared you might react this way, Stiles. I can't say that I understand it, but I respect your decision."

There's an unspoken tension that hangs in the air after Deucalion is done speaking. Because as much as the other man has told Stiles that he understands, he's not assuring Stiles that he and his enforcers won't be gunning for him in the arena. Stiles thinks it's quite the opposite. By not joining Deucalion, he's robbing the other man of his skill set, whatever that might be. Deucalion probably won't want Stiles around to help out any of the other tributes either.

Stiles turns and walks to the elevator, surprised that Deucalion lets him go.

"We'll be seeing you soon then, Stiles." Deucalion says. "Tomorrow in the arena perhaps."

His stomach sinks as he steps on the elevator. Stiles practically falls against the wall after the elevator doors close silently. Standing in the recycled air of the training center is almost comforting after the vastness of open air he had experienced on the roof. How had it only taken a few days for Stiles to grow so used to the closed world of the Capitol that fresh air now sent a chill up his spine?

The rooms of their apartments are silent when Stiles steps quietly off the elevator a few seconds later. He pads barefoot into his bedroom and shuts the door softly as to not wake anyone who might ask where he's been all this time.

Stiles sinks to the floor, his back against the door to his bedroom. The carpeting is soft and plush when Stiles sinks his fingers into is and holds on to it for dear life. Though it's dark outside right now, in a matter of hours the sky will fill with light and it will be time for Stiles to enter the arena. His heart pounds in his chest.

Has he done enough over the last week to show the Capitol and the rest of Panem that they should support him? Stiles thinks each and every action over and over. It's a spiral of the tiniest moments, all set out for him to catalogue and critique. Stiles suddenly doubts everything he's said and done in the training center. Punching Jackson, getting involved with Allison and Scott, somehow being the reason Derek was shocked by the blonde Peacekeeper, shooting the dart at Peter, acting like he was confident in his interviews, and not offering a hand to Heather throughout training like he should have from the beginning.

It's a catastrophe for Stiles' brain. There's no way that he's going to be able to fall asleep for hours now that it's started.

There's no escaping this sense of dread that washes over his very being as he sits on the floor of his bedroom and stares at the window on the opposite wall.

It goes on much like that until sheer exhaustion wears Stiles out. He falls asleep on the floor but wakes up in his bed when his dad comes to get him for breakfast.

\-----------

Finstock is waiting to take John, Heather, and her aunt down to the hovercraft. Somehow he actually looks as relaxed as Stiles has ever seen them.

“You’ve taken years off my life.” Finstock says, clapping him on the shoulder. “And you, you keep that sweetness.” He says to Heather. She smiles softly and accepts the hug that Finstock gives her.

Heather and her aunt walk a few steps away to have a moment of privacy in the fleeting time they have before they have to leave.

Finstock looks over his shoulder. “If I was allowed to bet, I would put it all on you, Stiles.”

Stiles hugs the other man, a bit lost for words at the moment. When Finstock pulls away, he nods tightly at John, takes a deep breath and then starts screaming for his assistant. Always one for a dramatic exit.

Stiles and the other tributes are loaded into a hovercraft a little while later. It's incredibly uncomfortable sitting there in the silence with 23 other people who probably want to kill you at some point. Even more so because Stiles is sitting across from Derek and his sister. Stiles is on the end, Heather at his side. But she doesn't speak to him.

He drifts in and out, his head still hazy from the lack of sleep. A lot of the other tributes don't look like they got much rest either. Deucalion however looks positively content sitting in the hovercraft as it takes off. He doesn't so much as flinch when a woman reaches out for his arm and injects him with his tracker for when he's inside the arena.

The same woman ends up standing in front of Stiles moments later. She takes hold of his arm without asking for him to hold it out and injects him with the tracker. His forearm stings for a moment, but it's not anything that he thinks too much about as they fly to wherever the arena is. There are no windows inside the hovercraft. But it's a few hours before they finally land. Stiles doesn't know whether to be happy or disappointed by the short length of the flight. He had somehow hoped for a few more hours of awkward silence compared to what's going to happen then they rise up into the arena.

The mentors are waiting for their tributes when the hovercraft lands. Stiles only has another hour or so with his dad to get changed and have a quick lunch. John keeps looking at Stiles with a frown and a smile on his face in turns. It's like he keeps remembering that Stiles is going into the Games and that he needs to keep a brave face on for his son.

For once in his life Stiles is actually fairly quiet as he and his dad are led to a small room where his uniform for the Games is folded on a chair.

Stiles changes quickly into the black pants, grey long-sleeved shirt, and tall boots that are provided. He's happy to see that the boots fit well and that they look like they have a good surface on the bottom for gripping. There's also a thin jacket with a number 12 on the back of it waiting for him. Stiles shrugs it on, feeling numb. He pats down his pockets nervously.

"I don't think it will be tropical." His dad says, feeling the collar of Stiles' jacket absently. "Or arctic for that matter. That's good."

Stiles nods, his heart fluttering in his chest wildly. "Personally I'm pulling for the backyard in 12. Home turf and all that."

He's aware that he's speaking too fast to really be understood. One corner of John's mouth wavers up and down for a moment as he takes in his son standing before him. "We can only hope." John says, patting down his pockets as he looks for something. "I have one last thing for you, kid."

Stiles holds out his hand, neither one of them comment on how it's shaking in tiny tremors between them. John presses something circular and cold into his hand. When John lifts his hand and reveals the object to Stiles, he sees that it's a small gold pin.

It's a delicate thing, with a thin circle of gold anchored to three spirals meeting in the middle. It's nicer than anything that Stiles has seen come out of District 12. He thinks it might be Capitol made.

"What is it? My token?" Stiles asks, holding the pin up to the light so that he can watch the light reflect off of its polished surface.

"It's a triskelion." His dad says, "It was your mothers, Stiles."

"What does it mean?" Stiles asks, rolling the pin back and forth between his fingers. He doesn't remember ever seeing his mother wear it when she was alive.

"A lot of things." John says, considering. "She always said that it represented family; mother, father and child. I wanted you to take us with you somehow in the Games."

Stiles nods, staring down at the pin as he closes it around his fist. He throws his arms around his dad's shoulder, hugging him tight.

"I'm coming home." Stiles says in a tight voice, as much to remind himself as he is reminding his dad. "I'll come back."

John nods against his shoulder, holding his son tightly. The pin bites against the palm of Stiles' hand as he holds it tightly in his fist.

"5 minutes until launch." says a soothing voice over the speaker mounted in the ceiling. Stiles jumps a bit as it interrupts the moment. He hastily pulls back from his dad, dabbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. Stiles doesn't want to look like he's been crying moments before he enters the arena.

Silently his dad holds out his hand. Stiles hands him the pin and stares blankly at the wall while his dad secures the pin to the collar of his jacket.

"You know what you have to do, okay." John says reassuringly. He fixes Stiles' hair absently in an incredibly parental way that would normally have Stiles embarrassed and shrugging off the gesture. Now he lets his dad smooth out invisible wrinkles over the shoulders of his jacket. "Don't go for the Cornucopia. There's always trouble there. You run Stiles. You find cover and you keep running for as long as you can. Find water and shelter for the night. Somewhere high up where you can see anyone coming."

Stiles nods, trying to remember everything that Finstock and his dad taught him.

"Then you find Scott." John says. "You two bunk down somewhere out of sight and you wait it out."

Words are bubbling out of Stiles mouth before he can stop them. "What then, if Scott and I are the last ones left? What happens then?"

John has a frantic look in his eyes as the voice over the loud speaker comes through again, "All tributes to their platforms. 60 seconds until launch."

"You two wait." John says, taking Stiles by both his arms and holding them tightly.

"But dad--" Stiles interjects.

"Listen." John cuts him off, ducking down to look in Stiles' eyes. "Wait it out. Trust me. Trust us, Melissa and I."

Stiles stares silently at his dad. "How?" He asks, but he feels like there's no time to get any thoughts out of his head. "I don't understand."

John shakes his head and hugs Stiles close again. "Just trust us."

Somehow Stiles hadn't noticed that his dad's been backing him towards the silver disk at the center of the room. John pushes him away carefully, Stiles feet touch the platform and he suddenly panics as a glass tube is lowered over him.

John yells out to his son as the glass lowers. "I love y--" but the end is cut off until all Stiles can hear is himself panting in the tube.

Stiles bangs on the glass surrounding him with a fist, shouting at his dad as he's overcome with the realization that this is it. He's about to rise up into the arena. He watches his dad holding up the three-finger sign that District 12 had shown Stiles at his reaping.

His own shouts reverberate against the glass and hurt his ears. John holds up both his hands to the glass. His mouth is moving, but Stiles can't hear what his dad is saying. But John looks like he's pleading with Stiles silently. Stiles puts his own hands up to the glass, leaving smears on the glass while his fingers grapple with the shiny surface.

The silver circle under his feet begins to vibrate, and then Stiles feels his stomach drop as the platform begins to rise slowly up towards the surface above. Stiles has only seconds to quell the rise of panic in his chest as his dad stands there silently watching him.

Stiles wipes hurriedly at his eyes as the platform rises slowly. John disappears from view. Stiles gulps, his throat feeling tight and dry from emotion. His stomach rolls over and over again, threatening to make Stiles sick as he stands inside the tube trembling.

The voice that sounds as Stiles' head beaks from the darkness into the brilliant sunlight is booming to his ears, so much so that he nearly staggers to the side and raises his hands to his ears. It's disorienting after so long inside to find himself in the light of the sun.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!"

The voice echoes all around Stiles as his head moves around on a swivel, taking in the surroundings that he and the other 23 tributes that have just risen from the ground find themselves in.

After a week of lavish decorations, Stiles remarks on the sheer green-ness of everything around them. His eyes take in the vast, lush clearing they've been placed inside. And of course, at the center, the Cornucopia stands 20 feet tall, holding all the weapons and supplies that someone might need to get through the Games.

On a screen at the top of the cornucopia, Stiles sees the numbers counting down until he can jump down from the platform without fear of the mines at the base going off.

50...49...48...47...46...45...

Stiles looks around, searching for Scott. Stiles is standing beside one of the boys from 9 on one side, and the blonde girl from 7 on the other. Spaced out as far as they are, Stiles cannot tell for sure, but he thinks that Scott might be on the complete opposite side from him, the Cornucopia is blocking him from Stiles' sight.

40...39...38...37...36...35...

He shakes his head. It's bad luck. He and Scott will have to try to find each other a different way in the arena. Stiles turns, behind him and along half of the circle of meadow, a great forest stands. It looks so dense that the forest floor is dark, with hardly any sun reaching the ground. There, he thinks. He'll run there.

30...29...28...27...26...25...

The weapons resting inside the Cornucopia are tempting though. Stiles would feel a lot more comfortable if he knew he had a sword or something to try to defend himself. He wonders if he could make it there and back before anyone got to him.

He's a fast runner. But Stiles doesn't think that he can chance another tribute being faster than he is.

20...19...18...17...16...15...

He gulps against the lump forming in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye be sees a flash of yellow. There a few platforms down from his own, Cora's crouching as though preparing to take a flying leap off of her metal circle. Her eyes are a fierce amber yellow that glows. Stiles can't tell from where he is, but he's willing to bet that 10 razor sharp claws have sprung from Cora's fingers.

Stiles has said it once if he's said it a million times. It's just not fair.

10...9...8...

Perhaps Stiles can use the rest of the tributes as a diversion so that he can get to the Cornucopia and out again without getting injured.

7...6...5...

Stiles palms slick with sweat as he feels a heavy weight settle into his chest. Though birds are chirping merrily in the trees surrounding them and there's a river babbling away somewhere in the vicinity, all that Stiles can focus on is the steady pounding of his own heart in his chest.

It was one thing to come up with a strategy when he was back in 12 or the Capitol. Actually standing in the arena is a completely different animal.

4...3...

When Stiles looks across the clearing from himself, he sees Derek standing completely still, his arms at his sides. But he's not staring at the Cornucopia itself like all the other tributes are as they eye which prizes they'll try to take.

Instead, Stiles feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he realizes that Derek's stare is fixed just to the left of the Cornucopia.

Right on where Stiles is standing.

2...1...

There's a loud cannon blast that seems to come from all sides. And in the silence that follows the sounds of 2 dozen people running for the tree line, the Cornucopia and each other.

Stiles stands frozen on the spot for what feels like a fraction of a second, long enough for a group of figures to converge on the Cornucopia. The first splash of crimson sprays from the neck of the boy who had been standing next to Stiles on his platform.

It shocks Stiles into action. He eyes the Cornucopia for a second, and then whips his head around to forest. 

His feet tell him to run for his life, but his head tells him that he won't get far without supplies. Stiles falters as he jumps down from the platform and spots a backpack sitting 20 yards from his position.

The grass under his boots is springy and slippery in a familiar way as Stiles pushes off with all of his strength and makes for the backpack. His hand reaches out to grasp the strap so that he can turn and run without pause towards the forest, away from the cries that have begun to sound from the Cornucopia.

The first cannon blast of the Games goes off the exact moment that Stiles' hand makes contact with the bag. A flash of silver passes through his vision and then there's a searing pain. Stiles slings the bag over his shoulder, eyes spotting the knife that's embedded in the ground a few inches away.

Stiles grabs the knife, sends a look over his shoulder at Jackson who's standing at the Cornucopia, his hands full of silver.

He's just happy that the guy isn't as good of a shot as Allison, otherwise he might have actually hit his target instead of just grazing Stiles' forearm.

The wound to his arm is a low simmering pain that makes Stiles more aware of his surroundings as his feet carry him towards the woods. As Stiles crosses over the line where the clearing ends, the air around him cools instantly. The enormous pine trees block out most of the light from the sun as well.

Stiles just runs and runs, his heart pounding in his ears.

It could be minutes or hours before Stiles stumbles over a log and falls to the ground in a pile of underbrush. The gash in his forearm burns, there's a tear in his jacket, but the fabric is dark enough that nothing shows. He hurriedly pushes back the sleeve to examine the injury. The gash is shallow enough, a superficial wound. But still blood has trickled down his arm and covered his right hand.

Stiles closes and opens his hand in shock. Ordinarily this wouldn't worry him too much.

But then the sick thought goes through his head that two of the other tributes are perfectly capable of tracking Stiles by the scent of his blood alone.

He heaves himself off of the ground, closing his hand over the wound as tightly as he can before he takes off running again. Stiles tries to put as much space between him and the Cornucopia. He just hopes it's enough to get him away from Derek and Cora. Maybe they'll be distracted by the scent of blood at the Cornucopia.

Stiles just has to hope it's true. Though, his luck hasn't been all that great over the last two months. 

Stiles runs for miles, until his legs are burning and his arms hang at his sides like they're completely useless. He's been running steadily uphill for a while now. His calves are shaking with tension, every time the muscles contract it sends a spike of pain through Stiles' body.

His body gives out on him before Stiles decides to stop running. As though his legs are so grateful for the way that the land under his feet levels out, they collapse on Stiles completely. Stiles, still propelled by the momentum of his body somehow rolls forward, his head and back hitting the ground in a somersault that leaves him spread out on his back under the blue sky.

Stiles' chest heaves as his breath comes in shallow gasps. There's a stitch in his side threatening to kill him and the cramps in his calves hurt so much there are tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

He closes his eyes for a moment despite himself. Just one breath, Stiles tells himself. He'll let himself rest for one breath and then he'll get up, begin his search for water now that he's put as much space between himself and the Cornucopia as he thinks is possible with the sun slowly descending.

The cannon's blast is just as loud as it had been at the Cornucopia and the three other times that it's gone off since Stiles began running. It's enough to shock him into sitting up.

The reminder that as he rested, somewhere one of the other tributes has died is still just as shocking as it had been the first time the cannon fired back at the Cornucopia.

Stiles clutches at his own chest if only to remind himself that his heart is still beating inside his ribcage. Sitting up, his jaw drops at the sight before him. In the years that Stiles has watched the Games, he's seen the arena in different configurations. There was the year of the arctic tundra, the skeletal remains of a small village destroyed years ago, a beautiful paradise turned nightmare, and the hollowed out remains of a city to name a few.

He's never seen this before in the Games.

It's a house. Half of a house jutting out in the middle of the clearing, and beside it is the burned carcass of what used to be the other half. There's no glass in the window frames, and the door is hanging off of its hinges, but Stiles can still make out the white paint that hasn't been burned away.

It takes Stiles a moment to stand. He's wobbly on his feet for a moment from the head-rush of returning to center. He finds himself walking towards the remains of the house cautiously. This is the only structure he's come across inside the arena.

The house reminds Stiles of his own back in 12. Though this one is much larger than the 3 bedroom home that the Capitol built a dozen of up in Victor's Village. The house standing a little crookedly in front of Stiles is three stories and has a huge porch that wraps around the remaining corner of the home. It's the biggest house Stiles has ever seen. He thinks that it must have taken a large family to fill the space out.

Stiles thinks absently that set in the middle of this dense forest, it must have been beautiful before the place burned down. He sets his foot down on the front step cautiously, looking around and listening for the sound of any approaching tributes. The warped wood under his foot squeaks when Stiles rests his weight on it. Stiles pauses, suddenly aware of the eerie stillness of the clearing and how he's making the only noise here. He can only hope that he ran fast enough to be the first tribute to make it out this far.

The door is pushed inside, Stiles can only make out the side of it as he approaches cautiously. He holds his hand out, grasping the doorknob and pulling it towards himself as a flash of red catches his eye.

The surface of the door, once painted a vibrant red has been reduced to an ashy brick color from smoke damage. Much of the paint is peeling off in flakes that fall to the ground at Stiles' feet. But scratched into the wood of the door is a tight spiral. A series of 5 jagged lines running parallel to each other in the door to be exact. It's a curious pattern, so clearly deliberate.

Stiles doesn't know why he does it, but he holds out his hand and matches up his fingers with the impressions. Finger by finger they overlap until Stiles has his fingers spread on the surface of the door, each one lining up with a line in the spiral.

His stomach drops as he remembers doing the same thing with the small marks Derek left on his chest after his panic attack. Stiles walks backward hastily, nearly tripping down the stairs in his effort to get as far from the home as possible. 

Those aren't the precise marks of tools. They're jagged and etched deeply into the wood. Whoever made them was possessed with a strong emotion like fury.

And they definitely were made by claws.

The woods continue past the house, and Stiles thinks he must be near the barrier of the arena. He keeps hustling until he's out of sight of the house, even going so far as to cut to the West to put distance between him and the burnt out shell of the old house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Stiles is finally in the Games.
> 
> Hope you're enjoying the fic so far!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for notes on character death and spoilers for TW and The Hunger Games.
> 
> The tributes:
> 
> District 1: Derek and Cora
> 
> District 2: Ennis and Allison
> 
> District 3: Isaac and Fey
> 
> District 4: Danny and Kali
> 
> District 5: Jackson and Jennifer
> 
> District 6: Paul and Amanda
> 
> District 7: Deucalion and Erica
> 
> District 8: Tim and Lydia
> 
> District 9: Asher and Alice
> 
> District 10: Scott and Helen
> 
> District 11: Boyd and Daisy
> 
> District 12: Stiles and Heather

Under the cover of the trees the world around him becomes closer to night than it actually is. What sky Stiles can see between the tops of the pine trees around him is streaked with pink and growing darker by the minute. It's time that he gets settled for the night.

Stiles looks around before setting his sights on a tall tree with strong branches and good holds for climbing. He hikes the straps on his backpack higher and does his best to ignore the painful protest of his muscles. He's run miles today without hardly any water or food except for the small lunch he forced himself to eat before entering the arena. He needs to find water and begin searching for food tomorrow. Stiles thinks he could make it through the night without eating though, he's put on a few pounds since getting to the Capitol.

Finally, Stiles feels like he's high up in the air enough that he won't be noticeable to anyone walking around at night. The backpack is black luckily enough, he doesn't worry about it attracting attention. Warily, Stiles remembers the pin and zips up his jacket against the cold to hide it from sight. He doesn't want to take any chances that someone might have a torch or fire. Stiles feels the chilly metal of the pin against his skin, it's oddly reassuring.

Now that he's settled, Stiles examines the contents of the backpack. His wounded arm is still sore, but he has the knife in his bag for all his trouble. There's a small pack of matches inside the bag, a strange looking tube that looks like a thick straw, a package of crackers, some beef jerky, a coil of wire, a length of strong rope and a compact sleeping bag.

It's more than he had hoped for. Though Stiles doesn't want to dwell on if it might have been worth the wound that could lead Cora and Derek straight to him. But the cut's been closed for over an hour now. Stiles sopped up most of the blood with his own jacket. He doesn't think he left much of a trail after he discovered he was bleeding in the woods. His hand is stained a gross brown from the blood oxidizing, it makes everything smell like copper when Stiles unpacks the sleeping bag and drapes it over his legs.

Tomorrow he'll properly asses the wound. He should have been on the look out for moss to try to close the wound, but Stiles admits that he was far too concerned with getting as far from the Cornucopia as possible. He forgives himself. The wound is pretty clean though.

The sky above him has settled into a velvety dark blue with pinpricks of silver shining through. The air back home is too polluted to see any stars at night. When he was in the Capitol the lights everywhere in the city drowned it all out. In the arena there is nothing but darkness surrounding Stiles. He's a bit homesick for the lanterns in the pathetic square outside Victor's Village shining through the windows of his bedroom at night. Though he grew up in 12, they usually had power for most of the night. It's frightening to be without that comfort.

The world settles around Stiles. The trees creaking in the wind that blows Stiles' hair back from his forehead. Crickets begin chirping, which is reassuring. Their rhythm is soothing to Stiles. He remembers that his mother once told him that their chirping somehow indicated the temperature outside. But he isn't sure how that works. It is chilly though. The weather had been pleasant enough while he was running, not that he had been paying too much attention to it. Without the sun to warm the forest, it grows colder by the minute.

Stiles hopes that Scott hasn't lit a fire to keep warm. He stares anxiously at the sky, waiting for the broadcast of the faces 5 tributes that died today. He hugs the backpack to his chest absently after using the rope to secure himself to the limb of the tree.

The broadcast will be the first test of whether Stiles can stomach seeing the face of someone he knows up in the sky. And while the only blood he has on his hands is his own, Stiles has a sick feeling that Scott's or Heather's lives may have been endangered because of him. Scott because he might be searching for Stiles, and Heather's because Stiles didn't do enough to help her through her training.

As much as Stiles keeps telling himself over and over that he will find a way to get home, no matter the cost there's a looming doubt deep in him.

What would be the point of returning to a life he couldn't face because of his actions? Stiles isn't like his dad. There won't be someone like his mom to bring him back from that.

There's no one back in 12 who would look at Stiles like he hung the moon, like he isn't a monster for letting the girl he grew up across from die.

The anthem begins to play from all around Stiles. It startles him to hear such an artificial sound when he's surrounded on all sides by trees and wildlife.

For a fleeting moment Stiles sets his hopes to seeing the faces of the stronger tributes. Perhaps seeing Ennis, Deucalion, Jackson, or that giant boy from 11 projected up in the sky would make him feel a little more secure. Derek and Cora's faces would be a gift at this point. A looming feeling of dread swells in Stiles' chest at the thought of glowing blue or amber eyes appearing out of the darkness. It would be better if somehow the brother and sister died earlier in the Games than later. Stiles would only have to look over his shoulder for the tributes who don't have super hearing and vision.

An image flashes up on the screen of the Panem seal, and then the photos of the dead tributes begin to flash up on screen.

The first casualty of the Games they show is the girl from 3. Stiles remembers her vaguely from Isaac's reaping. The fact that the first and second districts have been completely bypassed makes Stiles a little queasy. Derek and Cora are still out there.

The other tributes are the boy and girl from 6, the boy from 9, and the girl from 11.

Stiles immediately feels relieved when the broadcast wraps up. Scott's face hadn't flashed up in the sky. And then a wave of revulsion passes over him at the thought that their deaths give him a sense of security.

He never spoke to any of them. And their faces on the screen mean that Scott's or Heather's hasn't appeared. Stiles shakes his head at himself. Because as easy as it is for Stiles to think it will be him in the end who comes out the victor, that very thought could have been cut short if Jackson's knife had landed a foot to the right where Stiles' chest had been. Each of the 5 who died today thought through some clandestine series of events that it would be them who survived somehow.

But it's not.

And their guardians will receive their coffins draped in the flag of Panem. Next year their families will be at the ceremony welcoming the victor of this year's Hunger Games on their tour of the districts. They will smile. Because otherwise they might find themselves more under the thumb of the Capitol. It makes Stiles sick to think that he's been placed in this situation where the death of children who had a whole life before them has been cut short by President Silver and his Games.

Right now back in 12, there are children going to sleep with their blood running cold at the slaughter they witnessed on their screens. And those kids know that at some point their names will be the same pool as the lucky boy or girl from 12 who's been selected for the honor of representing District 12 in the Hunger Games.

Stiles wants to remember their names even if he played an incredibly minor part in their short lives. Fey from District 3. Amanda and Paul from 6. Asher from 9. And finally Daisy from District 11.

They deserve to be more than faces in the sky. They deserve to be a battle cry.

But there is no outpouring of emotion at their loss inside the arena. There's only the crickets and the creaking of the trees.

Stiles lets their song carry him off to sleep after a while.

 

\----------

John's done this for the last 20 years, and yet he's never felt just as helpless as right now. He and the other mentors have small stations near the control room for the arena. There's a bank of monitors at each station with the option to show one of any of the cameras broadcasting a signal. John has three monitors trained on Stiles from several different angles. They've lightened the footage so he can actually make out the shape of him slumped against the tree his pale face turned up towards the sky.

Their stations are in a circle with refreshments placed at the center. The room is dim apart from the screens lit up on 18 of the stations. 5 tributes have died, their mentors have left to grieve for their charges. John hasn't seen the boy from 3's father in days. It's nearly a relief to not have him scowling around the room constantly.

From here they can track their sponsors and send supplies to their tributes from a computer. The number next to Stiles name has been rising slowly since the Games started hours ago but it's nowhere as high as Derek and Cora's is. It seems like the boundless funds of the Capitol have been pouring in at a constant rate. Peter keeps walking past his station every hour or so to get himself a cup of coffee. Practically each time he pokes his head in and asks John how Stiles is doing.

It's irritating having to answer cordially when all he wants to do is take a page out of his son's book and shoot the guy with a dart made out of whatever it was that made Peter's veins turn black.

Stiles hasn't moved in hours. John cycles through the cameras trained on the other tributes. Scott is tucked away on the other side of the arena where the terrain is far more mountainous. Melissa fell asleep in her chair about an hour ago when John went to get a coffee. He doesn't have the heart to wake her. There's no one in Scott's vicinity right now. Plus she needs her rest.

John pointedly ignores the fact that Stiles would probably insist that John himself needs to get some sleep. He can't do anything but keep watch over his son right now.

Every single mentor with a tribute still in the Games is still down here. It seems like they're all standing guard over their tributes even though they can't particularly do anything if there was danger.

Maybe it gives them a sense that they're helping in their own way by acting as sentinels. 

And so John sits at his desk, eyes trained on the monitors before him as night slowly turns to day and Stiles sleeps on.

\----------

Stiles dreams that it's his own face up in the sky lighting up the arena. He looks just as awkward as he had in the footage they took of him. There's a cowlick of hair at the back of his head that no one smoothed out for him before he went in front of the camera.

Stiles gasps awake in the early morning, clutching one hand to his chest and the other to his mouth because he's sure that he cried out when he blinked his eyes open.

It wasn't just a dream of being in the arena. The only proof Stiles needs is the fact that he's sitting in a tree 30 feet off of the ground.

The sky is still a milky yellow from the sun rising over the arena. His tongue feels like sandpaper scraping against the roof of his mouth. Stiles swallows against the dry feeling of his throat, but it does nothing to sooth him in this state. He's bleary-eyed and shaky as he unties himself from the tree and packs up his sleeping bag.

Stiles allows himself a piece of jerky and a cracker as breakfast in the hopes it stops his head from swimming.

Food and water are the order of the day. It won't do Stiles any good to strategize a way to eliminate the Hales if he dies from dehydration.

The descent down the tree is significantly more difficult than the trip up had been last night. Now he makes sure to look down to make sure that the places he rests his feet look secure. He holds onto the limbs of the tree tightly with his hands until they ache. At one point he looks down and his head spins a little at the distance he still has to climb down before he reaches the ground.

When his feet touch the springy ground at the bottom of the tree it's both a relief and stressful. He's more accessible and out in the open this way. It makes him cagey. Stiles holds the knife in one hand and carefully makes his way through the underbrush. He goes as slowly as he feels he can given the surroundings. If he's searching for food and water, it could be miles before he comes to a spring or creek. He needs to save his energy where he can.

Stiles spends the early morning heading to the west, downhill from where the abandoned house had stood in the middle of the clearing. There has to be a source of water around here somewhere, he thinks. The trees are gigantic, their root systems must be complicated and far-reaching. The location of the arena either gets a large amount of rain, or there must be some underground source of water for the trees.

He hopes that at some point an underground spring might feed a small pool above ground. It goes much like that over the course of the morning. Stiles keeps his eye out for any plants that could he useful. The search earns him a bunch of dandelions, handfuls of clover, a head of garlic, and blackberries the size of acorns. Stiles gathers what he can while he walks. He eats some of the clover and blackberries as he searches. The rest of it he wraps carefully in a piece of the sleeping bag that he cuts free with the knife.

His arm is vaguely sore, and when he examines the cut it looks like it's scabbed over pretty well. He's lucky that the knife was more or less clean. It didn't look like it had been used for much else other than trying to kill Stiles.

It's amazing how the smallest things feel like a victory to Stiles now. He comes upon a patch of green moss growing at the base of an ancient tree. It's cool to the touch when he scoops up a handful and raises it to his lips, squeezing. He remembers his mom doing this on a hot day out beyond the fence. She'd told him that the moss purifies the water that it collects through it's tiny roots. Though it doesn't hold much, the mouthful of water that it gives Stiles has him sighing with relief.

The water tastes alive to him, like the sharp smell of grass growing in the beginning of spring. Stiles sits with his back to the tree for a moment, using what's left of the damp moss to wipe his hands clean of the blood that's dry and cracking on his hands. It's a relief to look down at his hands and see only the freckled skin that he's used to. There's still a bit of blood caked under his nails.

Stiles takes his lunch under the tree while he searches on his hands and knees for more moss. There's a bit more with water to spare when Stiles squeezes it over his mouth. He laments the fact that his pack hadn't come with a container for him to store water in or what he could see as any way to purify it for that matter. He knows that drinking fresh water without getting the contaminants out of it could give him a parasite that might try to eat him from the inside out.

He gets up a few moments later, feeling a little stronger from the bit of water and the jerky that he had for lunch. It would be better to catch something alive and cook it. But Stiles isn't going to chance trying to set a trap with the wire in his bag until he finds a more sustainable source of water where he might be able to set up a base for the night.

Stiles presses what remains of the damp moss to the cut on his arm. It's hardly a sterile bandage. But hopefully it should keep anything from coming in contact with the wound and it creates a barrier that might block out the smell of the small beads of blood that well to the surface on occasion when he moves his arm in a way that pulls on the scab.

The sound of his feet moving through the underbrush sounds increasingly louder to his own ears as he walks as carefully as he can. Stiles keeps his eyes on a swivel, pausing and ducking under bushes at the smallest of noises. But for the most part it's just the occasional stick breaking under his foot and the chirping of birds overhead.

The birds are actually a blessing to Stiles. He moves carefully enough that they don't much acknowledge his presence as he moves. But if someone came through the same patch of forest with less caution, they would fly away, taking their song with them. Stiles lets their calls to each other become a soothing reminder that he's alone for the time-being.

Stiles is in the process of collecting a strange dark green fruit with solid pale green flesh and a large pit at the center when the birds cease their calls for a single second before an eerie howling sound echoes through the valley that Stiles finds himself in. His hand drops the fruit in his hand as he picks up his backpack already weighted down with 6 or 7 ripe looking green things with tough skins. 

The silence that follows does nothing to calm the panic that flares in Stiles. That was a wolf's howl, and he isn't sure if it's come from an animal or from one of the Hales. If there's a difference. Which Stiles doesn't consider there is.

The mournful howl sounds vaguely like it came from the direction that Stiles came from that morning. He remembers the scored marks in the door and looks in every direction for a potential threat.

Stiles slings the backpack over his shoulders and walks backward for a moment, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the rise of the hill he's been following down all day.

His lungs contract, forcing Stiles to exhale on a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding this while time. A minute has passed since the howl. He looks up at the sky and seems that it's beginning to turn a hazy pink as the sun sets for the day.

Stiles climbs as high as he can in the tallest tree he can find. It makes him feel a bit safer to be up this high. He doesn't think that wolves can climb. Though, Derek and Cora can probably.

He settles in for the night, munching on what is left of the berries and cutting open one of the tough looking green fruits he found. The tree hadn't had any spines or hairs that are usually associated with poisonous fruit. The flesh of the fruit smells vaguely like vegetation and fresh rain. When he bites into the firm flesh of the fruit, the taste is mild, not sweet at all. Its texture is buttery in his mouth, velvety like the fresh cheese they get from the goats in 12.

After his quick dinner, his mouth still feels dry and his tongue is rough against the inside of his own mouth. Stiles knows enough about dehydration to know that he's sitting on the cusp of it right now. He only had to relieve himself once today, and what little liquid came out hadn't been a color that inspired confidence in his fluid intake.

There is an anthem that plays when the sky has darkened to an inky black. But there are no photos of any fallen tributes. It doesn't surprise Stiles. There's usually a small lull in the Games the day that follows their arrival. People will be searching for food and water much like Stiles had been today. Once they secure supplies, Stiles has no doubt that Deucalion and his pair of deadly tributes will go hunting.

The exhaustion of the day sets in on Stiles. He pulls his coat around him more firmly, the pin on his lapel presses against his cheek in a way that shouldn't be comforting but is for some strange reason. Probably because his dad said that it had belonged to Stiles' mother.

In his search for water today, Stiles had hardly thought about his dad or what he was doing in the Capitol right now. Is he more worried about his son encountering Derek or his lack of water at the moment? Stiles hopes his dad might be able to muster some sponsorships in order to send him water. But a commodity like that wouldn't come cheaply when it's such a powerful resource to have in the Games.

Besides, there might not be anyone that wants to sponsor Stiles in the Games. Certainly he hasn't given them any inkling as to what his high score was for. He's spent the last two days running for his life and picking clover.

Not exactly awe inspiring.

Stiles lets his eyes fall closed in his nest high up in the tree. The howl from earlier is still ringing in his ears. The goosebumps along his arms haven't gone away yet.

He falls asleep in small increments, drifting along for a while as he tunes out the now familiar sounds of the forest settling around him.

A mournful echoing howl breaks through the air, making Stiles jump and clutch at his bag. Now wide-awake, he stares into the darkness. He gasps for air as quietly as he can, holding his head to the direction of the howl in the hopes that he might be able to hear if something coming.

It had come from up hill once again, echoing through the valley. But it doesn't sound much closer than it had before. Stiles sighs, sinking back into the bark of the tree.

An answering call comes from the opposite direction of the first. It sounds a lot like the first one, perhaps pitched a little higher than the original call. It's a reply, perhaps a marker for the other wolf to find whoever called out.

That's what wolves do, they howl to alert their pack to their position when they're hunting. And right now the two wolves are some distance away, flanking Stiles' position from two sides.

If sleep comes to Stiles that night, he's not aware of it. Stiles spends the night clutching his knife in his hand, eyes wide against the darkness that pressed in from all sides.

Somewhere out there in the arena, two wolves are searching for each other.

Every time Stiles closes his eyes he sees the spiral etched into the door of the house. If something with claws made the mark, then Stiles thinks there might be a chance that whoever burned the house down might be connected. And what of the people inside the house? Their home is in an incredibly isolated place for all that Stiles could tell. It's not like in 12 where there are neighbors to help in an emergency.

He doesn't know what would be worse, dying trapped in the fire that destroyed the home or at the hands of the wolves that made the mark in the door.

It's a toss up. And either way it haunts Stiles' dreams that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. Shifting viewpoints.
> 
> Up next: Stiles finds himself in more danger than he expected.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!!!
> 
> Also, I'd like to address something that I think people have been commenting on more. The whole Sterek aspect of the story will definitely make an appearance in an upcoming chapter. But I'm working really hard to build up Stiles' character on his own in the Games right now. In the words of Orlando Jones "Ships dock in their own time" and while Sterek will totally happen, it probably won't be for a while.
> 
> But in other news. We will be having more characters make appearances very soon!!!


	14. Chapter 14

John's face is stuck firmly to the desk as he drifts in the space between sleep and consciousness. A voice cries out across the circle from him, one of the mentors is screaming at the monitor at their station.

John springs awake, knocking the cup of coffee off of his desk. The last thing he remembers is closing his eyes for a single moment last night around midnight. He'd been so worried about Stiles' lack of water that he felt sick to his stomach. John told himself he could force himself to stay up through the night to watch the footage. But it's obvious that he's failed.

He stands, all of his muscles protesting as his joints pop. Sitting for the past two days hasn't agreed with him. But John's not about to take a nap in the plush bed upstairs in his apartment.

Over the wall of his pod he sees a large man stand up and pull one of the monitors from his desk, throwing it at the wall. He's screaming. John flips around through the channels until he reaches where the boy from 8 is running through the woods as if his life depended on it. He's fast, but the man and woman chasing him are gaining on him.

The boy trips and stumbles over a root sticking up in the ground, he lands so hard that it dazes him. The man from 2 and the woman from 4 approach, swords clutched in their hands.

There's a scream from the boy on the screen, the mentor from 8 collapses out of sight, and then there is nothing.

John gives it a moment, and then there's the inevitable sound of the cannon firing.

\--------

The cannon blast sounds in the murky time between the moon setting and the sun rising over the horizon. The sound reverberates so loudly that it feels like it shakes the tree Stiles wakes up in. Stiles flails, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest as he's thrown out of sleep in an instant. His arm flings out at his side, knocking his bag from his grasp so that it sails to the ground and lands with a 'whomp' at the base of the tree.

Stiles hurriedly grasps the rope tying him to the limb of the tree and pulls the knot to release himself. He throws the rope and the sleeping bag down to the ground, grasping at the bark for a handhold so he can begin his journey down the tree to the ground.

His hands are pale and shaking things as Stiles wills them to grip tightly on the limbs of the tree as he climbs down. It's a struggle. Stiles has to press himself close to the tree, clutching at the limbs in his hands with everything he has in the hopes that a moment of focus will be enough to get him back down and on the ground.

It takes a single moment.

Stiles is stepping down from branch to the next one down when his other foot slips on the patch of loose bark that it's resting on. His hands can't hold his weight on their own, not while his muscles are in the throes of dehydration.

As he falls, Stiles realizes there's nothing he can do. His hands aren't coordinated enough to latch on to one of the branches that whip past him as the wind rushes through his ears.

There's a sickening crunch and an explosion of pain as Stiles lands on a branch half way down the tree. The impact travels from his tailbone hitting the branch, and radiates upwards as his head bashes into the branch a fraction of a second later. The impact to the back of his skull makes the world white out as his body slides limply off the tree branch and continues in its trajectory towards the ground.

Stiles reaches up and clutches at the back of his head, doing his best to coil his body into a ball to protect his organs.

He lands heavily on his side, one of his kidneys protests and sends a bolt of pain lacing through his side. Stiles rolls to a stop after a few feet, his face planted in the ground and his hands clutching at the back of his skull. It feels like if he lets go his head might just crack in half.

The pain is worse than anything Stiles has ever felt. It's worse than the broken arm he had when he was 9 and the time with the shovel that left him with a scar hidden by his hairline. Stiles breaths in like a desperate thing, his exhale is a full-body sob.

\---------

John's hands are shaking so hard that he can barely pick up the phone and dial number after number. On the screen on his desk Stiles is sprawled out on the ground like a lifeless thing. His eyes are closed and his skin looks deathly pale. It had been like something out a nightmare watching him fall from the tree like a bird with a broken wing.

He has to do something. But there's no money. Not enough to send Stiles water and not even a quarter of what he would need to send him medicine. John's frantic as he pulls up sponsor after sponsor, calling them and asking for more. For the most part no one will give him anything. They say that Stiles hasn't shown them why he scored so high in his evaluation.

John hangs up the phone and stands up, feeling like anger and worry are battling inside of him for control. His hand lashes out before he can stop himself; it makes a satisfying crack when it comes in contact with the wall. And John's knuckles pop and pain radiates up his arm.

"John." Melissa says, appearing at the doorway to his small space. One of his knuckles has split, there's blood dripping steadily from his hand and landing in fat drops on the white floor. "That's not going to do anything to help."

John shakes his head and his rapidly swelling hand. "There's nothing that I can do." his voice comes out like a broken thing. "He always does this, climbs so high that he gets himself stuck or he falls. He's been doing that since he was a kid. He doesn't know any better."

Melissa's eyebrows pull together and she gives him a sad look. "If I even had enough money, I would give it to you. But I don't."

John waves a hand at her. "I wouldn't ask. You need that money for Scott. I wouldn't do that to you."

She looks conflicted when she walks into the space and picks up a napkin from his desk. "He's probably just winded himself. There was no blood. And it was a nasty fall, but he hit the ground, and there was undergrowth that helped to break his fall." Melissa takes his hand in hers and presses his knuckles with the napkin, sopping up the crimson blood that wells to the surface. She looks up at John with concern in her brown eyes. For a moment she reminds John so much of Claudia that he has to look at the ceiling.

"Stiles is a strong kid." Melissa reminds him. "With a dad like you, he's learned a lot about how to take care of himself. Not in a bad way. Not that I mean you haven't taken care of him. I just meant that you showed him how to solve his own problems."

John stares down at her fondly as she rambles. He flips his hand over in hers, holding it in his grasp. It hurts to close his hand but he does it anyway. "I needed that."

Melissa frowns in a self-depicting way. "If you need me I'll be a few doors down, watching over my son and putting my foot in my mouth."

John watches her go and somehow feels a bit better when he sits down. His hands are still shaking a bit when he picks up the phone and cycles through the next sponsors on the list. He nearly drops the phone when Stiles stirs on the screen, blinking his eyes open. 

\---------

Stiles lays there for what seems like only a few seconds, but when he pries his eyes open the world is much brighter than it had been when he woke up. He passed out, and it's no wonder when he considers the tender, shocky pain that radiates from the back of his head.

He looks around, worried now that the hours he's been laying on the ground have given the other tributes time to track his movements. But his backpack is still sittng at the base of the tree, the sleeping bag and rope have settled a few feet away. They're rumpled but in more or less good condition.

Stiles levers himself up on an elbow, poking at the spot on his side that's screaming in protest. When he lifts his shirt there's already a massive bruise forming. He reaches his hands up and tenderly cradles the back of his head. He's happy to see that when he pulls them back there's no blood on his hands. Small miracle that is.

He feels dazed from the pain and the contusion to the back of his skull. It's like the world has gone permanently out of focus. Everything is fuzzy around the edges as Stiles drags himself towards his meager belongs strewn 10 feet away. It takes ages to pull himself along, but his legs don't seem to want to cooperate at the moment. They kick feebly when Stiles tries to move them, so at least he knows he didn't paralyze himself when he hit the tree branch. If he had hit it with the center of his back and not his tailbone it might have snapped in half.

Finally, Stiles clutches at the strap of his backpack. He reaches out and gathers up the sleeping bag and the rope, stuffing them into the backpack without bothering to roll them up into an orderly bundle.

Stiles pushes himself up to hands and knees, using the tree to steady himself as he stands on wobbly legs. His back protests the movement with a sharp stabbing pain that makes him cry out audibly. Stiles slaps a hand over his own mouth to stifle the sounds of his cries as he leans against the tree for support. 

What he needs is rest and something to take down the inflammation of his tender wounds. But considering that there are currently 17 other tributes in the arena potentially hunting him down right now, there's no time for rest.

His first steps are uncoordinated and wobbly. Stiles thinks he looks a bit like a newborn fawn, all rickety knees and swaying body as he slowly makes his way through the forest.

It's a devastatingly slow journey for Stiles as he has to concentrate on every movement. His hands clutch at the trees as he passes them, grateful that the forest is so dense.

It isn't any warmer today, Stiles knows this objectively. But Stiles feels like he's burning up. He thinks he would take his coat off if he thought he would be able to get his arms to work. Inside his mouth, his tongue is swollen and sore.

It's dehydration. Stiles has just enough sense left in him to know that things have gone from bad to worse for him today.

He has no concept of which direction he's traveling in at this point. Stiles could be going in circles for all that he knows. It takes too much effort to get his brain to focus. His thoughts are sluggish and fleeting. They warn him that he should stop, seek water, and save his strength. And just as soon they're gone, wiped from his brain as Stiles becomes fascinated with a cluster of purple flowers growing at the base of a gigantic pine tree to his right.

Stiles bends to pick up the plant, clutches it to his chest like it's the most important thing to him right now even as his body is shutting down, his heart beating a stuttering rhythm in his chest.

The world around him is brilliantly bright, filled with vivid green in spots and inky black shadows in others. And yet Stiles totters on through the woods, the purple flowers clutched in his hand are cool, they stain his hand purple when he looks down at his skin to see where he's crushed the blossoms in some places.

It's a complete surprise to Stiles when he steps between two trees and finds himself out in the open, no longer surrounded by trees on all sides. Instead he finds himself on the muddy shore of a small lake. It's shaded by the bent boughs of gigantic trees that grow in a circle around it's bank. Stiles stumbles forward, treading unheeded over the bed of leaves that have fallen from the trees above in a mosaic of green and brown.

There's a whooshing sound the moment that Stiles foot steps down, and then a strong force wraps around his ankle and whips him off the ground with an immense strength. Stiles' head hits the ground for the second time that day as his body is pulled up high into the air by the rope wrapped around his ankle.

Stiles has about 3 seconds to realize the grave mistake he's made as he hangs upside-down by the side of the lake. The sound of someone running through the underbrush gets louder as black spots begin to spread across Stiles' field of vision.

Stiles passes out against his bonds, body going limp as his captor comes running out into the open to survey their prize.


	15. Chapter 15

A cool hand presses itself to Stiles' brow. It's a familiar gesture to Stiles. His mother used to wake him up when he was a little kid like this. She would sit on the edge of his bed and smooth back his hair over and over until he broke the surface of sleep and opened his eyes.

Stiles leans into the gesture. The hand pauses for a moment before is rests more firmly on his forehead, fretfully a thumb runs over one of his eyebrows. Maybe when he opens his eyes he'll see that this has all been a nightmare, his mother will be at his bedside back in 12 and his body won't be in the immense pain that it had been before the darkness took him.

But then there's a flare of pain from the back of his head, his stomach turns over and then Stiles only has a vague warning before he vomits sour tasting bile. Stiles cries out as his stomach contracts over and over, his body curls into a c-shape on the ground that aggravates the side he fell on.

Something cool and wet wipes across his face. The lip of a bottle is pressed to his lips and spills a small mouthful of cool water. Surprised, Stiles splutters for a moment at the fact that after days of struggling to find this precious resource, it has magically made itself known to him.

A small voice sounds near him as the water is taken away, "Hey, take it easy."

Stiles' mind is still trapped in the confusion that dehydration and the blow to the back of his head has left him stranded with. He thinks the voice sounds familiar. When he opens his eyes a crack, the small amount of light that filters into the otherwise dark space is blinding. He shuts his eyes and curls into a tight ball.

"Oh, it's the light." The voice says, and then whoever it is moves away. There's a rustling of something for a minute and then the person comes back. "I think that should be better now."

Stiles blinks his eyes open. The tiny amount of light that filters in through the pine boughs propped up against the opening to whatever this place is still hurts his eyes, but not in a way that makes Stiles feel like someone has driven a knife through his skull. The ceiling above him is made up of stone and dirt, with what looks like roots poking through in a few places. The walls are much the same, but the floor is hard packed dirt under Stiles' body. Stiles and whoever's been tending to him are inside a small cave, only 5 feet high and about 8 feet from side to side.

Whoever is moving around the cave with Stiles is rustling around in the corner with something. A hand appears out of the darkness with a metal canteen, Stiles clutches at it like a lifeline.

"It rained while you were out." The voice says, tipping the canteen to a lower angle when Stiles tries to down the whole thing at once. "You'll make yourself sick if you do that."

Though Stiles can't identify the face of the person, the hand in his field of vision is pale with nimble looking fingers. There's a ring of green bruising around the delicate looking wrist. Stiles' hand is shaking as he pulls the bottle away. "Isaac?" he asks. His voice is rough, and it hurts to speak after so long without water.

"You're in bad shape." The voice responds in answer. Isaac crouches over him, patting Stiles on the chest when he tries to rise up on his elbows. "Just stay there."

"Why are you?" Stiles asks, though he realizes that's not a full question. "What are you doing?" he asks instead.

"Right now I'm giving you water. In a minute or two I'm going to go get more." Isaac says. Stiles isn't used to the way that the other boy's voice carries a bit of sarcasm with it as he speaks.

Stiles might be concussed, but he recognizes the difference between the Isaac he went through training with, and the one holding the canteen steady for Stiles to drink from.

The other boy pulls the canteen away from him after another minute; he presses his hand to Stiles' forehead. "You're burning up." He says, his voice laced with worry.

Stiles nods. He feels cold all over; his pulse is beating a thready rhythm when he presses his fingers to his neck. "I'm dehydrated." he says clinically, a bit of panic lacing the end of the word. "And concussed."

Isaac nods, biting his bottom lip as he wracks a hand through his unruly light brown hair. His large blue eyes flit around the cave as he appears to be thinking. "What do you need?" He asks.

Stiles doesn't even pause to consider why Isaac is helping him. "More water. I need to drink plenty of fluids and I need to cool my body down. Ah--cold compresses and something salty to help me retain the water. I can’t regulate my body temperature."

Isaac nods, holds up what looks like Stiles' jacket. "I can soak this in the lake. You kind of threw up on it while you were passed out and when you woke up. So uh, might be a good idea anyway."

Stiles lets out a weak chuckle, his body heavy. He raises one hand a bit and gives the other boy a thumbs up in response. Isaac nods, parting the pine branches as he does.

The moment of solitude gives Stiles a moment to realize the reality of his situation. He's incapacitated, would have likely died from dehydration if Isaac hadn't found him and brought him to this cave. But why would he do that for Stiles? Sure, they talked a bit while Stiles was in the training center. But he and Isaac never bonded.

It sends a pang of anxiousness through Stiles. He flops over on his belly and reaches out with his hands for his bag, for the knife that's strapped to the outside. In the darkness, Stiles grapples around on his stomach, reaching around wildly with both of his hand for his bag. His hand grips one of the familiar straps, and Stiles pulls it towards himself with all of his strength. On its way towards Stiles, the bag gets stuck on a lump of something that Stiles had been resting his head on.

He examines the makeshift pillow curiously. It's a balled up cloth. Stiles shakes it out with a hand and realizes that it must be Isaac's jacket. The other boy sat with him and tended to Stiles while he was passed out. The fact that Stiles had vomited in his sleep and didn't choke to death means Isaac must have tilted his head to the side and made sure his airway was clear.

The other boy returns as Stiles is trying to flip himself over onto his back. Isaac holds up the knife that Stiles had gotten at the Cornucopia. "I borrowed this." he says, fixing the branches. He filps it in his hand deftly, holding it out to Stiles by the blade so that the grip is pointed towards Stiles. Stiles shakes his head at Isaac. It's a show of trust and they both know it. Isaac shrugs and holds the knife between his teeth as he sets about laying what looks like a bunch of branches out on the ground in front of him.

"It's not very comfortable." Isaac says, putting the knife down as he surveys his work. But I think it will be better than laying on the ground.

Stiles looks from the other boy to the branches on the ground. "Why are you doing this?" Stiles asks. His voice comes out shaky from the trembles that his body just seems inclined to do on its own. His muscles are contracting all on their own. It's alarming.

"Shut up." Isaac says, but it sounds a bit fond as he helps Stiles stretch out on the newly covered part of the ground. He hands Stiles the canteen of water. "Drink that." Stiles nods, sitting up on his elbows so that he doesn't splash water all over himself.

Isaac leaves again and comes back a minute or so later with Stiles' jacket in his hands. The material is blessedly cool when he lays is across Stiles' chest. The water seeps through Stiles' shirt as his brain swims in a pleasant haze. Isaac hands him some berries and half of one of the green fruits from Stiles' pack a few moments later. Stiles would be annoyed at the other boy going through his things if his mind could focus on it.

He and Isaac sit in silence for a while. Stiles still feels like his head is going to fall off, and his body is one giant bruise, but all things considered It's better than staggering through the woods like he had been doing that morning.

"What happened?" Isaac asks a little while later. He looks a little to the side at Stiles when he asks, as though trying to gauge his reaction, like he's worried Stiles is going to lash out at him.

"Fell out of a tree." Stiles says, touching the back of his head again gingerly. "Hit my head on the way down and passed out. I don't even know how I made it through the woods to the lake."

"Neither do I." Isaac grumbles.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the other boy in question.

"I was following you for 10 minutes before you made it to the trap I had set. I was hoping on a deer or something." Isaac says.

Stiles rolls his eyes at himself. In the back of his mind he knows that this injury has probably signed his death certificate. His concussion's left him with dizziness, confusion, and a whole list of other things that have made the Games even more difficult. If Isaac hadn't cut him loose and brought him here, Stiles definitely would be dead right now.

"I'll go as soon as I think I can stand without throwing up." Stiles says reassuringly.

Isaac looks away, nodding. "Yeah. That's a good idea, Stiles."

"Thank you for, you know, not killing me." Stiles says awkwardly. This surpasses any and all moments that Stiles had thought were surreal during his training. Did he really just thank the other boy for not stabbing him while he was passed out? Really? As though Isaac had held a door open for him, or helped him pick up his books in the hallway at school? It couldn’t be that simple.

"Not a problem." Isaac says.

Stiles looks at the entrance to the cave. The light coming through the branches is dimmer than it had been before. Night is about to set in on the two of them.

He's spent most of the day asleep at this point, but Stiles is still exhausted. He yawns into his hand moments later, feeling his eyelids droop lower and lower.

"Isaac." Stiles says suddenly, reaching out to grab the other boy's arm as he suddenly remembers all of the things he's read about concussions at once. "I'm going to fall asleep. You've gotta wake me up every hour or so. Ask me questions, things I should know. Ask me to answer simple math questions. And if I don't get them right, just try to keep me awake."

Isaac nods, taking Stiles' hand in his. "It's okay, Stiles." He says reassuringly. "I'll watch out for you."

The other boy stretches out on the ground next to Stiles and stays in his line of sight as Stiles gradually loses touch with wakefulness. Stiles falls asleep with Isaac's hand pressing the damp sleeve of Stiles' coat to his forehead.

\--------

Someone is calling out to him softly, Stiles blinks his eyes open to complete darkness. He calls out sharply in confusion before a hand wraps around his wrist and shushes him.

"Can you tell me your name?" A voice says in the darkness.

Stiles nods, "Stiles."

"Good," The voice sighs. "Where are we?"

"In the arena." Stiles answers. He sounds like a child to his own ears. "In the Games."

"Alright, What's 3 times 7." The voice asks after a minute.

Stiles pauses before answering. "21." he says in a sluggish voice, already falling back asleep.

"Okay." Isaac says reassuringly, patting his head. "Have a sip of water." Stiles drinks automatically once the canteen is pressed to his lips. "That's good."

Stiles falls back asleep seconds later with the word "Thanks." dying on his lips as the world fades from his mind and he's floating once again.

\---------

Stiles is woken several more times that night. Isaac asks him questions and forces him to drink yet more water. When Stiles opens his eyes on his own, without the prodding of the other boy there's a small amount of watery light leaking through the branches covering the front of the cave.

The pounding of Stiles' head has lessened to a dull pain that he can ignore without too much trouble. The rest of his body protests a bit when he sits up on his own and reaches for the canteen clutched in Isaac's hand. The other boy is fast asleep next to Stiles, laying on the hard packed dirt while Stiles was stretched out on the branches.

Stiles gingerly pries the canteen from Isaac's grasp. The other boy sighs in sleep and curls tighter into a ball to fight off the early morning chill. Stiles takes a drink, shaking his head at the other boy who so clearly fell asleep while he was supposed to be monitoring Stiles for brain damage.

He doesn't know exactly why Isaac even chose to cut him down from his trap, or why he tended to Stiles while he was passed out for much of the day before. They're tributes in the Hunger Games. There's a knife somewhere in the cave. And yet both of the boys are more or less unharmed. They've been in each others presence for almost a whole day and they're both still breathing.

It's curious.

Stiles wonders briefly if this means that Isaac doesn't have it in him to kill Stiles. Perhaps the pressure that turns children into killers hasn't manifested in him yet. Stiles has certainly thought about it in the last few days, prepared himself mentally for the inevitability that he might have to end the life of someone else to spare his own.

He could slip away right now and ensure that they don't have to do the awkward dance of who is going to threaten who. It would be all too easy to grab his bag and sneak out of the cave.

But the nagging voice in his head reminds him that Isaac watched over him all day yesterday, made sure he didn't die and took care of him as best he could. Stiles owes Isaac for that. And he's not one to lets debts go unpaid.

As carefully as he can, Stiles reaches out in the darkness until his hand curls around the grip of the knife. He crawls as stealthily as he can to the entrance to the cave where the branches are piled to camouflage it.

Stiles parts the branches as carefully as he can before he crawls out of the small opening. He turns back to right the branches as best he can. The small entrance to the cave sits at the base of a massive pine tree, once the branches cover the entrance, it's barely indistinguishable from the many branches at the base of the tree.

It's a smart place to hide, Stiles thinks. Isaac is close to water, and his hiding place is well camouflaged. There are small clumps of bushes near the shore of the small lake where more blackberries are growing. Stiles pulls off a handful of them and eats while he surveys the world around him.

The sky is just beginning to turn from yellow to blue with the early morning. Birds have begun chirping merrily in their nests, and nothing else stirs in the area besides Stiles.

This place reminds him of District 12. People rarely ventured past the fences for fear that they would encounter the rare bear or mountain lion. Stiles knows from the short journey in the hovercraft that there's no way that they're in 12, but there are still mountains off in the distance that look similar to the ones back home. The vegetation isn't that much like that of 12 either, those green fruits that Stiles had found days ago aren't anything like what he'd encountered in 12.

Stiles bends down at the lake to splash water on his face when he notices his hands for the first time since his concussion. The skin of his palms is stained a vibrant light purple for some reason. Stiles scrubs at this hands under the water, cleans under his fingernails as best that he can with the tip of the knife. He checks on the wound to his arm, peels away the moss from days ago and is relieved to see that the scab is completely closed and there's no discoloration around the wound.

Something begins nagging at Stiles as he continues to wash his hands in the lake, he vaguely remembers the time that he had been wandering through the woods after falling from the tree. When he closes his eyes to concentrate, he sees his hand clutched around the stalks of a cluster of purple flowers that had stained his skin when he accidentally crushed them.

Stiles wanders around the lake for a few minutes, looking for the discarded flowers on the ground where he might have dropped them when Isaac's trap went off. But they're nowhere in sight. Stiles puts his hands on his hips and looks around for any sign of the purple flowers.

He walks back to the cave and parts the branches, letting in a streak of bright light from the sun into the cave. There, he sees the flowers sitting at the back of the cave, probably discarded by Isaac while he was taking care of Stiles.

Stiles crawls to the back of the cave and gathers the wilted flowers in his hands carefully. They're mostly intact, the petals of the purple flowers drooping from lack of water.

"What are you doing?" Isaac asks, rubbing his eyes with the back of one of his hands while yawns.

Stiles doesn't answer, he's too busy trying to formulate some kind of plan in his head. Somehow, even through the confusion of his injury, Stiles managed to gather some wolfsbane from the forest. There has to be more out there for the taking.

He's given himself the gift that could mean Derek or Cora's elimination from the Games.

Isaac shrugs when Stiles doesn't answer. He rolls over onto the patch of branches Stiles had been sleeping on. Half way there Isaac seems to realize what he's doing, and his eyes flick open to look around, all traces of sleepiness have wiped from his face. He plants his back against the wall opposite Stiles' in a surprisingly graceful movement.

"I think you should go now, Stiles." Isaac says, looking very pointedly at the knife that's still in Stiles' hand.

Stiles nods absently, reaching to begin rolling up his sleeping bag. He catches sight of the branches he had been sleeping on all night and his jaw drops.

"Hey Isaac," Stiles says, picking up one of the green branches from the ground so that he can examine it. "Did you find this around here?"

Isaac tenses, nodding silently.

Stiles sits back down on the ground, opposite the other boy. Isaac's blue eyes study Stiles intently as the other boy chuckles to himself. "I know you didn't have to cut me down." Stiles says, "And you certainly didn't have to take care of me. If you'd let me, I want to repay you for the fact that you didn't brutally murder me in my sleep."

Isaac tilts his chin up at Stiles, he looks skeptical now. In the light of day perhaps he's forgotten what made him take care of Stiles for as long as he did.

Stiles holds up the branch in his hand. "You show me where you found this, help me collect more, and I think we might be on to something."

"What are you talking about?" Isaac asks.

Stiles looks up at the roof of the cave as thought it was the sky. There has got to be someone up there looking down on him, watching over him and protecting him. Stiles has stumbled into the greatest tactical advantage beyond anything he could have imagined.

"I'm talking about getting rid of Derek and Cora." Stiles says, running the green plant through his hands as he speaks. "Between your knowledge of traps, and my experience with plants I think we could make a great team."

"Tell me more." Isaac says, his shoulders relaxing minutely.

Stiles grins, holding out the plant. "Well, for a start, this is mountain ash. It has a curious effect when in the presence of Mutts. It traps them."

Stiles had been wrong about Isaac. The other boy does have it in him to take a life. Because Isaac's blue eyes narrow for a moment and then fill with the realization of what Stiles is implying they do. He holds a hand out to Stiles, which the other boy clasps. Isaac's hand is strong and cool under Stiles' grip. They hold tightly to each other's hands in the refuge of the small cave.

The plan takes shape in a matter of moments. Stiles feels giddy as it's woven together between them.

Falling from that tree might have been the best thing to happen to Stiles. It brought him to Isaac, probably the tribute amongst them with the most knowledge of traps and a seemingly endless supply of mountain ash.

It's enough to make Stiles believe his luck might be changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: another point of view within the arena.
> 
> I think after last night's episode we're all hurting. Honestly, what happened is just too brutal to put into words. I don't know what it's gonna mean for this fic. I'll obviously be working on it still, but everything is just really heavy right now. I might start working on something a bit lighter to ease the tension.
> 
> Ugh. The feels.


	16. Chapter 16

Isaac shows Stiles the place where he harvested the mountain ash near the lake. There's a lot more than the bundle that Isaac brought into the cave last night. Together, Stiles and Isaac carefully cut down the stalks and carry them back to the cave. It's a risk, but Stiles has set the flowers out of dry in front of the cave in the bright sunlight. He's found himself two smooth stones to grind the dried petals into as fine of a powder as he can muster.

Stiles has searched the immediate area around the lake, but he hasn't uncovered any more wolfsbane, and for the life of him he can't remember where he had been in the woods when he found the first bunch. There's only enough wolfsbane for one shot at their plan. There's no room for error here. If the brother or sister lash out, they could easily kill Stiles or Isaac.

Isaac pulls the mountain ash out of the cave and lays it on the ground near where they have the other bunch heaped up. Stiles would like to see it dried out before they burn it. If it isn't dry enough it will send up tons of smoke when they try to light it on fire. And attracting attention while they're getting their plan in motion is exactly the opposite of what Stiles needs.

They each work on their own parts of the plan. Isaac sits on the ground next to Stiles while he sets the mountain ash to dry and draws on the ground with a stick in the mud.

"So you said something about a house?" Isaac asks.

Stiles nods absently, "Yeah, over the hill. A few miles away from here. Half of it is burned down. But I figure we need a way to bottleneck whoever is chasing me. I'll run through the doorway, we'll already have the mountain ash circle partially complete, the snare will be hanging from above the door, that should be enough in theory to confuse them for the few seconds I'll need to complete the circle."

Isaac nods, drawing what looks like a schematic of the doorway and how he will string the wire and rope. "How do you know that one of them will follow you?" Isaac asks, looking a little skeptical about the plan.

"Tomorrow night's the full moon." Stiles says, a little nervousness creeps into his voice. Stiles coughs to try to cover it a bit. If he's completely honest, the idea of going out tomorrow night with the intention of trapping one Hale to use as bait to catch the other is more than a little insane. But if he and Isaac want to live to see another day, they need to set up an offensive against the Hales.

Then they can part ways and Stiles can resume his search for Scott. He feels completely not at ease about having the other boy somewhere out in the arena, potentially injured or worse. Stiles vaguely remembers the sound of the cannon that woke him up the morning he fell from the tree. If he's honest with himself, he's a little too nervous to ask who it was that died. "And I have 17 years or anecdotal evidence from watching the Games that whenever there's a Mutt in the arena around a full moon, there's always a bloodbath."

Isaac balks, paling a bit. "You're right. How do you know so much about this stuff?"

"About the plants?" Stiles asks. Isaac nods, resting his head on his bent knees and looking off into space. "I'm always underfoot. When I was a kid I followed my mom and dad around the house through every room until it drove them crazy. My mom was always working on something or other for people in the district. She'd mix medicines at the kitchen table and tell me what she was doing. I guess I just paid attention."

After that Isaac goes to check on the traps he's put out near the cave. He returns with a rabbit that Stiles tries not to balk at too much. Because it's food. But it was also pretty damn cute before it died.

Stiles shows Isaac how to skin and clean the animal. They wait until dusk to light the fire a ways away from the cave just in case someone stumbles upon the remains of it in the night.

Isaac is kind enough to split the animal with Stiles. They eat the rabbit in the cave with what's left of the plants that Stiles picked a few days ago. He feels more full then he's used to as he stretches out with his back against he cave wall and his legs straight out in front of him. In the dying light of the pink sky Stiles sets to work grinding the petals into as much of a powder as he can. It's not his finest work. There's more moisture than he would like. Stiles thinks it will work though as he cuts another small piece off the sleeping bag and wraps the powder up.

Isaac's curled up on the ground on the other side of the cave, one bright blue eye visible. The other boy looks around fleetingly, as if he cannot settle. Stiles recognizes it as nervousness. He can relate. Before the Games, he never had to force his mind to focus so intently on one thing. Sometimes it can get hard not to just take in all the little things.

Looking at the other boy sparks the same curiosity in Stiles that had overcome him when he woke up in the cave yesterday and this morning.

"I have to ask." Stiles says quietly in the growing darkness. He stows the wolfsbane in his bag and stretches out on the ground next to the other boy. "Why did you take care of me? I mean, you could have just cut me down and that would have been more than enough. It's more than someone else would have done. But you didn't just do that. You brought me back here. Isaac, you saved my life."

Isaac flops over onto his back and stares up at the roof of the cave. "The day you punched that kid, after your dad tackled Derek Hale, the head Gamemaker guy came up to my apartment and talked to my dad. He asked my dad if he hit me. And my dad screamed at him because that was completely preposterous, and the guy calmly sat there staring him down like it was nothing. And when it was over, a bunch of Peacekeepers came in and dragged him out of the apartment. So I saved your life because basically you saved mine."

Stiles shakes his head. "I didn't save your life. I just said something to Deaton."

"That was all it took, for this weight I've been carrying around for 16 years to finally be gone. For the first time it felt like I could breathe normally. I didn't have to watch every single thing I said or did. You saved my life. You gave me two days of freedom." Isaac's voice is quiet in the darkness. He speaks quickly, like he won't be able to get all of it out if he doesn't do it right now. "My whole life, no one's ever done that for me. Growing up in Victor's Village, people didn't think that I could have real problems. Like the fact that we weren't starving meant that everything was okay. But it wasn't. So I helped you with your problem because you helped me with mine. I had to repay you."

"Isaac." It comes out as a sigh more than anything. Stiles is touched by this boy who had crouched next to him on their first day of training. "If it had been reversed, if I had run into you in the woods I don't know what I would have done. I might have tried to kill you. You trusted me with about 5 minutes knowing me. Doesn't that strike you as a little crazy? That's not just something that people do. Not here."

Isaac is probably rolling his eyes at Stiles. It's something that the other boy does a lot now that Stiles has gotten to know him better. "But that doesn't matter. Because I still did it. I trusted you. And you haven't tried to kill me and I haven't tried to kill you. It's worked out pretty well for both of us."

Stiles stretches out on the floor of the cave and splays out the unzipped sleeping bag so that it's more like a blanket. In the small space it easily covers both of them. Though if Stiles' feet are poking out at the bottom then Isaac's definitely are as well. Stiles is amazed that Isaac hasn't been complaining day in and out about hunching over in the cave as it is.

"Thanks." Stiles says. "I have one more question and then I promise I'll let you go to sleep. Who died the day you brought me here?"

"I-ah don't know. I was a little caught up in the whole making sure you didn't choke on your own tongue thing to watch the broadcast. That was the only blast of the day though." Isaac pauses. "That's strange, right? It seems slow for there to only be 6 deaths so far."

It makes Stiles shiver absently. "Yeah, definitely. We just have to follow the plan and tomorrow there will definitely be some bloodshed."

Stiles falls into a deep sleep moments later. He dreams of chasing blue lights through the dark forest like when he was a child catching fireflies in the summer back in 12.

\----------

John and Melissa have a system. After the night that John fell asleep and woke up to the mentor screaming about their child dying, he decided that he just would not be able to function knowing that someone wasn't watching over Stiles.

And so since Melissa was in the same boat with Scott they came up with a deal. They would each take a 5-hour shift to sleep through the night while the other watched the footage of where the two boys were. So far nothing had happened at night, but with the full moon coming up, John had a creeping feeling that the Hales were about to make their presence known.

He's been watching his son intently as he and Isaac work to put their plan into action. But it's as though they don't even want the people at home to understand what's happening. Stiles and Isaac spent much of their conversation planning the attack that night in silence, drawing things quickly out on the ground and then scratching them out again.

Whatever he picked up from his years of watching his mother work intently must have somehow stuck with him. It reminds John too much of watching Claudia go through her stores of plants in the middle of the night when someone came to her with an ailment. Their problems would plague her as she searched for some kind of cure. Sometimes John would wake up to an empty, cold spot in the bed usually reserved for his wife only to find her pouring over her books. She would have fits of inspiration in the middle of the night, times her mind wouldn't quiet at the thought of someone else in pain.

His son's single-mindedness now is practically her mirror image.

There has to be something that John can do even though hundreds of miles separate him from Stiles. What would Claudia do? What would she say after seeing how Stiles has refused to buckle under the pressure of the Capitol? No doubt she would fiercely proud of Stiles, just as John is and has been for his son's whole life.

Still, something nags at him. She would think outside of the box, take something and transform it into their saving grace.

John looks over at Scott's monitor where the boy is sleeping, curled against the rocky wall at his back. He's shivering against the cold, but had the foresight not to light a fire. He's a smart kid, perhaps a little overeager. But Scott reminds John of Stiles in that respect. And looking at Melissa, sometimes the light in her eyes brings Claudia to his mind.

He's known her for years, though their time in the Capitol with their tributes there hadn't been lots of time to really get to know each other. After Claudia died she had been one of a few mentors who approached him with their condolences. But instead of leaving it at that, she had been a voice of reason during the Games that year. John had been consumed with guilt about leaving Stiles with Heather and her aunt even for a few weeks. His mind hadn't been in the right place. Melissa reminded him how much their job was about being a guardian for the children placed in their care.

As mentors, they were there to offer strategy, but also support. They were supposed to be a strange mix of parent and coach to the children from their districts. Melissa just cared so much about every one of her tributes. Year in and out she watched over them, did the best she could to prepare them for the Games.

But it's a completely different animal to have their own children in the Games. It's cruel especially when he thinks about how there can only be one victor. Their arrangement to look out for the other hasn't been something he's seen any of the other mentors go about. Except for perhaps Peter and Chris, but John can't make heads or tails of those two. In all his years John doesn't think he's seen them express more than pleasantries to the other. And now John's walked in on more than a few quiet exchanges between the two men.

Allison's set out on her own. Derek and Cora are across the arena, have hardly moved from their hiding place since the Games began. Peter and Chris' charges haven't even come in contact in the arena. If they've formed some kind of alliance, John doesn't know what their endgame is, or how they might have planned to come together.

These people he's known for years are now rooting for their child to be the one who comes out alive. It's created an icy and stilted environment in the room where they've based their operations.

Somehow though, John has this feeling that he can trust Melissa to look after Stiles. And she feels the same about John. Otherwise Melissa would be drinking cup after cup of coffee in her own station instead of sleeping across the two chairs that John's pushed against the wall of his own area.

There's always a blanket of grief that settles over the training center once the Games begin as tributes pass on. Every mentor takes it hard when their tribute meets their end in the arena. How could they not? They have to go back to their respective district and look the parents in the eye when it's all over. It makes their lives even more complicated after what they've gone through in the Games. They've each fought and spilled blood in order to come out as a victor. And as a prize they get to live out their days in a home that's a reminder of their crimes.

It's why John's always done the best he could to pull for his tributes. Year in and out even when all seemed lost. He'd tried to send all of his tributes into the Games with a sense that they will come out alive. Every year he'd been on an empty train back to 12 with nothing to give the families except for a flag and an apology.

Because he always feels like he could have done better. Done something different. Talked to them more about what to expect. Rallied sponsorships to send them what they desperately need.

And now his son is the one on the other end of the camera. If John goes home alone there will be nothing. Just an empty house and an empty life. He doesn't think that even the memories would be enough to help him hold on. At least after Claudia died he could look at his son and see her eyes reflected back at him.

He looks at the clock, it's a little past midnight. Stiles is 18 today. 18 and about to set out on a plan that could end in his death. He hasn't even really begun living yet. Stiles doesn't know what it's like to find a partner to share your love and pain with. He's certainly grown up a lot in the last 2 months, but he's not an adult yet.

There's so much he still has to see. Has to go through, fight for. To have it all end today would break John. It would.

Fitfully, John checks on the sponsorships his son has earned so far. Not much, perhaps enough to send him something small. He deserves that.

It takes hours, Melissa wakes up on her own in the middle of the night before the sun has risen.

"You should sleep." She says, rubbing at her eyes as she checks in on Scott. She smells like lavender and lemon when she leans over his shoulder, taking his coffee from his desk. "You look awful."

"Not quite yet." John says, scrolling through the catalogue of things he could send his son. There has to be something here that could help.

"You won't be any help to him if you make yourself sick." Melissa says into the cup of coffee that went cold hours ago.

John grumbles in reply, searching on the screen. It feels like a lost cause, until he nears the bottom of the page and something catches his eye.

This could do it, John thinks. He selects the item, adds a small message and schedules it to send in a few hours, early enough in the morning to catch the boys before they set out.

"What is that?" Melissa asks, squinting.

"Nothing special, unless you know how to use it." John says, a smirk lighting up his face. Claudia would be proud of him. She would definitely tell him to get some sleep as well. He stands, a few vertebrae popping after so long in the same position.

A few hours of sleep then. He tells Melissa to wake him up in 3 and stretches out as best he can on the floor. She chuckles and throws him the blanket she found somewhere.

\----------

A small chirping chime wakes Stiles. For a second he thinks it might be a bird somewhere. He rolls over, pressing his check into the dirt floor of the cave, willing his body to relax back into sleep. But the sound gets a bit louder and keeps going off in the same pattern.

Nothing in nature is that particular. Stiles blinks awake all of a sudden, pushing himself up onto his hands in the darkness of the cave. After seeing 16 Games, he recognizes that sound as a parachute from a mentor. Considering that Isaac's dad was removed from the training center, Stiles' heart pounds in his chest as he realizes that it might have been his dad who sent it.

Stiles scrambles out of the cave. Isaac grumbles vaguely at the sound. The sky is just barely starting to lighten from purple to pink with the sunrise. It's about time for them to set out anyway. Stiles looks around before he spots the silver parachute resting in one of the boughs of the tree at the entrance of the cave.

His hands are shaking as he reaches for the parachute carefully. It's a small package. Stiles thinks for a moment that it could be some kind of pain medicine for his head. It's still pounding a bit. But not nearly as badly as it had been a few days ago when he fell from the tree. Stiles cracks open the small metal package holding whatever has been sent to them. There's a small note resting there when he opens it.

"Happy birthday, kid. Love, dad" 

Stiles smiles, rolling his eyes at himself. With everything in the Games he's forgotten that it's his birthday. Who does that?

Underneath the card is a small object. It's a curious thing. Stiles doesn't recognize it when he holds it up to the weak light. There's an empty small glass tube at the bottom with a thin tube fed inside. The glass part screws into a metal portion at the top. There are two buttons, one a little taller than the other. Stiles twist the top part around in his hands, examining it. There's a tiny nozzle set into the front. It looks a bit like one of the bottles of perfume his mother had on her dresser that his dad brought back from the Capitol.

The sounds of Isaac stirring inside cave sound. And then the other boy pokes his head cautiously out from under the tree. His hair is a complete mess of bed-head, plastered to his skull on one side and a wild mess of curls on the other.

Isaac yawns into his hand, rising from the ground. "What's that?" he asks, looking around. But nothing stirs and there's no sign of another tribute anywhere near them.

Stiles holds the object carefully in his hands, unscrewing the top from the glass portion as he walks towards the lake. He dips the glass into the water, filling it up half way as his brain begins filling in the gaps. Stiles screws the top of the thing back on and presses the smaller of the buttons. Nothing happens.

Stiles frowns, shaking the object fitfully. Because he had expected the water to spray from the nozzle.

"Give it here before you break it." Isaac says. He holds it up to his face, squinting at it. "I've seen one of these before I think." he presses the taller button and nothing happens except for the small sound of air being sucked into the nozzle. "You need to push this button over and over again. As the air fills the chamber it pressurizes. Once you've done it enough, you press the other button and if I'm right then something should happen." 

Isaac's hands do what he explains. He pumps the button about five times and then presses down on the smaller one. A cloud a mist emits from the nozzle, filling the air between the boys with water. Stiles blinks and runs a hand over his face, clearing it of the moisture. But then he notices how the water's already managed to soak into the cloth of his jacket in tiny droplets. Some of it's still hanging in the air.

"Refreshing." Stiles says, taking back the object from Isaac. He repeats the process that the other boy followed, and then presses the button that makes the cloud of mist appear in the air. It's far more powerful than he would have expected from such a small item. The air a few feet in front of them is full of water, some of it gets in his mouth and nose when he breaths in. "Hey Isaac, do you think we could put something else in here? Not just water?"

Isaac shrugs. "Sure, as long as it's something suspended in liquid. I think it would do the same job."

Stiles smiles, looking up at the sky. "Thanks dad." he mutters, holding the object tightly in his hands. "You're a lifesaver. Kind of literally."

Stiles had been trying to figure out a way to distribute the wolfsbane as a part of the plan. Neither he or Isaac had seen anything around to make a dart gun as Stiles had used before. Now it seems they might have an incredibly effective way to get the wolfsbane into the system of a certain brother and sister.

Isaac opens and closes his mouth silently, as though he's working out exactly what Stiles had been thinking. "Oh, that's good." he says, kind of in awe. 

"I know. My dad's kind of awesome that way." Stiles says, pocketing the sprayer. He claps the other boy on the shoulder. "Time to get to work."

They pull all of the mountain ash out of the cave and walk to the place where they cooked the rabbit yesterday. It burns a lot more easily than Stiles would have expected. Stiles and Isaac stand guard over their fire while the mountain ash burns down until its embers, and then they crush whats left into as fine of a dust as they can manage.

It's not as pretty as the smooth powder that Morrell had shown Stiles. But the inky black color of their ash is the same as hers had been. Together they wait for it cool and then they scoop it into the silver fabric of the parachute for safe keeping.

Their things are packed up as well as they could manage last night. Stiles shoulders his backpack with his things, the mountain ash and the wolfsbane. Isaac has a crude spear he's made from a branch sharpened to a point with Stiles' knife yesterday.

The sun's barely brightened the sky by the time that Stiles turns towards the rise of the hill when he had seen the house on his first day. Stiles and Isaac set out as the birds wake from in the nests and begin sounding their songs.

It will be a long day and an even longer night ahead of them. But if they've planned it all correctly, it will all be worth it not to have to worry about Cora or Derek's glowing eyes emerging from the darkness.

\-----------

Allison stalks as silently as she can across the hard-scrabble terrain of the mountains. There's little cover here, the only trees that have managed to dig their roots deep into the rocky soil are few and far between. She keeps her body as close to the sheer wall of the mountain on one side as she can, leaving 3 directions for someone to attack from. She's reached a height where she can see the rest of the arena stretching out before her. There in the center, the meadow where the Cornucopia sits picked clean of the weapons and supplies it had to offer. Farther out there's a lush looking forest with a river cutting through it from its source in the mountains.

She raises a hand to her eyes, far off in the distance someone's lit a fire. Allison sighs to herself, the audacity of some people.

It's been an unnerving Games so far. She's only seen a few tributes in passing, and to her knowledge they didn't notice her. The small group of the red-headed girl and the two boys with her hadn't seemed like they were getting along very well. The blonde one had been complaining enough that it was a miracle no one else had heard them and attacked. The quiver of arrows on her back have only seen the blood of a few rabbits and birds. Still, she keeps her guard up as she stalks along.

Before this, she and her father had discussed at length how important it would be for her to set out on her own. She remembers the long arguments they had in the training center the day that Scott's breathing brought him to the ground. He hadn't been happy to find her with Scott's head in her lap as he recuperated. Something about the presence of Peacekeepers in the room had startled him enough that he had whisked her away to the apartment as quickly as possible. But when Scott was looking up at her, with the relief of recovery washing over at him his eyes had locked onto hers. And she had felt grateful that he was still there, that he was okay.

Allison had expected a lot from the Games, prepared herself mentally with the mantra her mother had drilled into her for years when she was a child. Approach every situation clinically. Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment.

Having two parents who were former victors had been a strange childhood. As much as they loved her and cared for her, they also instilled in her the notion that family is really the only thing you can count on in life besides yourself. When they both left for the Games last year, victors in toe, Allison had expected them both to come back in one piece.

Only, that didn't happen. Instead it was just her dad who stepped off the train to greet her at the station.

How could a woman who was so strong, who had taught Allison practically everything she knew about life suddenly be ripped from her?

Since then her father's barely been able to let her out of his sight. It seemed like even their house wasn't somewhere he felt safe anymore. For a while they both cut themselves off from society. Her dad stopped going to work, shut himself into his study and just wilted with grief.

When he emerged, he was a different man. He had been hardened somehow by losing his wife. The man who had been the one to bandage her scrapped knees now took on her mother’s role of testing Allison at every turn.

There had been a rising tension neither of them spoke about. It rolled on and on like a kettle on the stove until one day it heated to a boil. On the day of the Quarter Quell announcement, Allison actually thought her dad would burn the house down in anger.

He'd thrown things, taken an axe to all of the beautiful furniture in their home, put holes in the walls, and even smashed the screen.

It had been Allison who had to give him the same speech that her mother usually gave when one of them was overcome with emotion. Allison and her father had always been the ones who were more inclined to feel everything freely. Her mother had been the rock they could tether themselves to when everything got to be too much.

The way he had looked at her in the aftermath, surrounded by the remains of their once perfect home had been one of shock and anger. And then he just crumbled. For the first time in months he cried for his wife and the life they had lost. Allison had gone to him and allowed herself to feel as well, even when it felt like it was too much, like her heart would simply break in half from the pain of it all.

Her mothers words had rung in her ears for the entire episode.

But people are made to feel. They live their lives on an emotional spectrum. And with that comes all of the ugliness like fear, anger, and grief. There's a time to bottle everything inside. That can make you stronger, Allison knew this. It hardens you to the world.

The strongest, toughest armor still shatters on impact sometimes. It doesn't have the give it needs to survive the blows. And it leaves you completely unprotected, surrounded by the remains of what had been your defenses.

There has to be a middle ground somewhere, Allison thinks. She looks out on the sky lightening before her, at this vast wilderness. Somewhere out there is Scott and at least a dozen other tributes who have been pitted against each other.

She had been as ready as she thought she could be for the violence. Allison knew that she could take a life if she had to. It was practically inevitable. Neither her mother or her father would have thought less of her if she returned home as a killer.

And so she had gone into training prepared for the worst. To have to shield herself from forming attachments to any other the other tributes lest they end up meeting in the arena.

What was so surprising was how blindsided she'd been when faced with the kind eyes and soft smile of the boy from 10. Of Scott's overwhelming presence while she taught him how to shoot a bow and arrow, not because he really wanted to learn. He'd just wanted to be around her. How hurt he had looked when she walked away from him that first time with the words of her mother in her ear and her dad's disapproving gaze at her back.

Allison cocks her head to the side at the sound of rocks skittering against the ground a little ways away. She kneels to the ground, peeking around the corner of the rock face where a small path leads up the mountain.

There again, a little louder are the sounds of a scuffle. Her heart picks up in her ears even as she tries to remain calm. The faint sound of a person crying out sounds.

Allison stands carefully, raising her bow and pulling back her arm as she approaches. If someone is fighting another tribute, they might mean to come for her next. Allison follows the path, sees the faint impressions of footprints in the little earth of the mountainside where two paths converge and lead up the mountain.

Someone cries out sharply in pain and then a soft thud sounds. Allison, decision made, runs up the mountainside.

This is it. This is the moment. Her mother's voice tells her over and over that it would be better to dispatch the two fighting lest they turn on her somehow.

The path flattens out. There, Allison sees two bodies on the ground in a scuffle. There's a pool of blood forming from one of the tributes. But both of their faces are obscured. One of the tributes, a smaller one is wildly thrashing out at the other.

Allison sees a flash of silver as the tribute raises a knife in a small hand, about to bring it down on the neck of the other tribute.

The arrow gives a soft sound as it's released from her bow. When it sinks into the back of the tribute, they give a whine. Death is swift. Allison's aim had been true as the arrow sailed to its target, the heart.

There's a cry of surprise from the tribute on the ground as the other drops like a puppet with its strings cut, landing on top of them. A pair of hands come to the dead tribute's shoulder and struggle to muscle them off of their torso.

Allison sees a flash of long hair from the dead one. A girl then, and one of the younger girls who had been in the Games.

A flash of pain goes through Allison, but she brushes it away like water off a duck's back. She stalks forward as the tribute still alive pushes the dead girl away and tries to scramble to their feet. Only there's crimson blood flowing from a wound to their leg and they crumble to the ground, face down.

Allison approaches the body, a canon blast sounds, but compared to the buzzing in her ears it's nothing. She narrows her eyes at the injured tribute, pulling an arrow from the quiver on her back.

The tribute flops over as Allison pulls back the bowstring, her arm a sure point of strength anchoring it before she fires.

The tribute's grasping at their leg, crying out again from shock. It seems like they haven't even realized what's happened.

But then their head raises, searching for the arrow's source. A mop of brown hair flops as the boy turns his head this way and that. And then his brown eyes lock onto Allison.

Her heart, her icy heart feels like it stops beating in her chest as she realizes who it is injured on the ground. He's just as flustered for words now as he had been standing before her with his tray of food on their first day of training.

Scott's face is held tightly in pain. Blood is welling between his fingers where he's clutching the wound to his thigh. He's gasping for air, much like he had been the day when he collapsed in training. There's a wheezing sound that fills the clearing, takes up all the space between them and makes a lump in her throat make itself known.

Her hand twitches, still holding true on the arrow notched on her bow.

Allison shatters when Scott's shaky voice speaks her name. "Allison?"

What must she look like? A stony version of the girl he met back in the Capitol? The dead girl between them with an arrow protruding from her back as proof that she's this heartless thing.

Clinical. Be clinical. Allison closes her eyes for a moment. She can't look at him just as much as she can't stand his eyes on her right now.

She doesn't know who is more shocked, her or Scott, when she lowers the bow in her hands. It falls to the ground, the arrow rolling a few feet away.

But then she's running to him, crossing that distance and wrapping her arms around his neck. Scott's hand tucks around the side of her neck, sticky with blood and filling the air with a copper tang.

Scott's face is pale when she pulls back and looks at him.

She feels just like their house in District 1, remade in chaos. The walls she's constructed around herself have gaping holes now. And there's Scott, sitting with her in the aftermath as she's suddenly crying.

The way that he's looking at her, like she's this precious thing. Like she could do nothing wrong fills her with warmth. It's as though he fills in the cracks in her crumbling facade. She should feel weak, powerless. She's failed her mother by letting this happen, by letting him in.

Instead she feels strong, made better by this boy and the fact that he's alive. If she hadn't been here he could be the one who was dead right now instead of the girl a few feet away from them.

Allison chooses to focus on that.

If there is little time left for either of them, Allison isn't going to let that slip away without feeling this.

In that respect she's her father's daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SEASON 3! SERIOUSLY!
> 
> I wrote this chapter a few weeks ago. Before the last two episodes of TW season 3 happened. I think we all have a lot of feelings about what happened. So I think it's a little strange that I started writing from Allison's point of view right before it happened. It's made her death really difficult because I felt like I was getting in her head.
> 
> But then rereading this chapter while editing I came across something that I feel like exemplifies why we loved Allison on the show.
> 
> "But people are made to feel. They live their lives on an emotional spectrum. And with that comes all of the ugliness like fear, anger, and grief. There's a time to bottle everything inside. That can make you stronger, Allison knew this. It hardens you to the world.
> 
> The strongest, toughest armor still shatters on impact sometimes. It doesn't have the give it needs to survive the blows. And it leaves you completely unprotected, surrounded by the remains of what had been your defenses.
> 
> There has to be a middle ground somewhere, Allison thinks. She looks out on the sky lightening before her, at this vast wilderness. Somewhere out there is Scott and at least a dozen other tributes who have been pitted against each other.
> 
> She had been as ready as she thought she could be for the violence. Allison knew that she could take a life if she had to. It was practically inevitable. Neither her mother or her father would have thought less of her if she returned home as a killer.
> 
> And so she had gone into training prepared for the worst. To have to shield herself from forming attachments to any other the other tributes lest they end up meeting in the arena.
> 
> What was so surprising was how blindsided she'd been when faced with the kind eyes and soft smile of the boy from 10. Of Scott's overwhelming presence while she taught him how to shoot a bow and arrow, not because he really wanted to learn. He'd just wanted to be around her. How hurt he had looked when she walked away from him that first time with the words of her mother in her ear and her dad's disapproving gaze at her back."
> 
> Allison Argent is the girl who moved to a new town, who fell in love with the boy who handed her a pen in class without her having to ask. She learned that her family was nothing like what she had thought. She lost her aunt, and then he mother. She became a warrior and tried to cut herself off from emotions. And being clinical did help her sometimes. But I think it was the moments that she allowed herself to feel for her friends that really brought out the protectiveness in her.
> 
> Allison Argent is the girl who's first question to Scott was if Lydia was okay. Even though she was dying. She still needed to know.
> 
> Allison Argent matters. And I will miss her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. First off, I never planned on leaving this for so long without an update. At the end of the last chapter I found myself a bit stuck. And I apologize for not updating for over a month. On a side note, it was because I was working on something else Sterek related.
> 
> Anyway, here it is.
> 
> Please don't hate me for leaving this for so long! I hope it won't happen again. Hopefully a long chapter will help to sooth whatever pain you guys felt with not having an update for so long!

Mutts are drawn to blood, much like moths to a flame. During the Rebellion, they were sent after the wounded. Dragging themselves along, away from the burning remains of their homes, the survivors soon found themselves face to face with the snarling muzzles of the Capitol's greatest creation. Stiles interviewed a woman back in 12 a few years ago who'd lived through it all. She told him that even the sounds of dogs barking sent her into a panic. She'd hardly been able to speak of the bloody years she'd lived through.

"It was their eyes." She had said, pulling him into a dim corner of the Hobb one cold winter afternoon. "So human, and in an instant like nothing I could ever forget. Sometimes glowing red like fire, but mostly an icy blue, like the all the warmth had just been pulled out of them."

She'd told him about the Mutts dragging mangled bodies into the town square, the red trails left behind that wouldn't wash away for days until the rain came.

"They couldn't be controlled on the full moon." She had said. "The best we could do was shut ourselves inside, extinguish the lanterns and pray for morning. But we still heard the screaming and the howls."

Now all Stiles can hope for is that this holds true for Derek and Cora, their plan kind of hinges on the fact that they won't realize they're running into a trap until it's too late.

"This is so stupid." Isaac says, lying on his belly next to Stiles in the undergrowth next to the burned out house. They've been lying there for a little over 20 minutes now, watching and waiting for any sign of other tributes.

The house is just as creepy as ever, leaning forward with empty windows like dead eyes. There's nothing in the clearing but Isaac and Stiles as far as they can tell. There are some tracks through the area, but no one has settled in the house it seems, wary of it even though it would offer shelter against the elements. Stiles doesn’t blame him. This place is too creepy for words.

"I've got to agree with you there." Stiles said, trying to squint past the darkness beyond the front door. Stiles crawls forward and waits a moment.

Nothing happens. The birds keep on chirping, and above the sky is still a clear blue with puffy white clouds drifting by.

Stiles motions for Isaac to come forward. "Start working on the snare. I'll be doing the other thing."

"The magic circle?" Isaac asks, slinging a coil of rope over his shoulder like one of those sailors in the books he used to read when he was a kid.

"It's not magic." Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "I mean, it might be. But it probably isn't."

"And if it's not magic?" Isaac asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Some kind of allergic reaction? I don't know." Stiles says, nodding at the door to the house. "Get to work."

Isaac sighs and walks towards the house, examining the doorway from every angle before he gets to work. Stiles takes the bag of mountain ash from the backpack and holds it in his hands for a moment.

There's really only one chance for this to work. Stiles doesn't think he would be able to pick all of it up again if he messed up the circle. Morrell had said to believe with everything he had that it would work. Back in the Capitol that had seemed a little crazy. But Stiles had seen how Peter reacted to the dart, and that began firming up his belief in whatever power this plant held.

Their lives are counting on it at this point.

So Stiles carefully unties the bag of mountain ash and takes the first fistful of it in his hand, closing his eyes. He clears his mind of everything except for the single thought that this will work. Because it has to work.

Over and over again Stiles chants this silently. At some point Isaac finishes with his part of the plan and sits on the porch, kicking his feet back and forth absently. Stiles doesn't look up at the other boy, tries to keep his mind fully focused on the slow process of taking handfuls of mountain ash in his hand and laying it down in a line that connects continuously around the house.

By the time that Stiles reaches the beginning of his circle, the sun's climbed past its highest point and has begun its descent over the horizon.

"That’s it?" Isaac asks, looking down at the place where Stiles has left a small gap in the circle.

"Should be." Stiles says, wiping his hands on his pants. He carefully seals up what’s left of the mountain ash so that he can survey Isaac's work.

It's a simple rig. Isaac shows Stiles how the rope hangs from the beam above the door. Stiles takes out the sprayer from this morning and carefully wets the rope with a small amount of the bright purple liquid of the wolfsbane mixture. He watches the solution soak in to the rope, staining it from white to purple. He hopes it will be enough, can't chance using any more when he knows he'll need it to incapacitate Derek and Cora.

Isaac and Stiles turn away from the house and retreat to the tree line in case anyone stumbles upon he clearing surrounding the house. Now it’s just a waiting game until the moon rises over the arena. Stiles has seen it happen before in the Games, they’re usually scheduled so the full moon falls at a point early in the Games. It’s a way to up the stakes early on.

Stiles swallows against a lump rising in his throat as the sky gradually begins to darken. The moment is quickly approaching when he’ll have to face the inevitability of taking another life.

He hopes his dad will still be able to look him in the eye when he emerges from the arena. None of this will be worth it if his dad can’t face him.

\----------

Melissa sits, pale and shaking beside John all afternoon as they watch Allison tend to the deep wound on her son’s leg. For all that seeing Stiles fall from the tree had been horrifying, this is really the closest either of them has come to losing one of their children. Chalk it up to teenage hormones or some otherworldly power looking out for Scott, Allison spared him.

John leaves for a minute. They need to eat even if it offers them no comfort while Stiles and Scott are in the arena, fighting for every scrap of food they can muster. 

It’s fairly quiet in the room as usual. Some of the mentors have left for the day to try to drum up some sponsorship. But many have stayed, using the phones at their stations to check up on contacts and generally watch over their charges.

John has two plates in his hands when he hears the doors close softly behind him. He turns, catching a glimpse of Chris Argent’s sandy hair on his way to his own area. It’s not uncommon for people to come and go throughout the day, especially right now when there isn’t anything particularly worrying going on. His son’s plans for tonight notwithstanding.

Then suddenly there’s a crash and a sharp grunt of pain. John drops the plates in his hands, unheeded by the way they shatter on impact with the ground, as he advances towards the source of the sound, where he left Melissa just a moment ago.

John hasn’t seen Chris in the mentor’s quarters since last night, which isn’t common for the man, but it appears he’s resurfaced just in time to learn of what transpired this morning between Scott and Allison. John’s area is a mess, one of his monitors is hanging off the side of his desk by a single cord, and another’s been smashed on the ground.

It’s been years since Melissa and Chris have been in the arena, since then John’s never seen the kind of savagery they were known for in the arena, but right now he’s reminded of being a fresh-faced new victor and watching Melissa tear the throat from a man twice her size during his first year as a mentor. Her eyes are fierce and dark where she’s looking up at Chris, one hand pinned to the man’s neck clutching a wickedly sharp looking dagger she must keep strapped somewhere.

There’s a bruise blooming across Chris’ face already. John thinks he might have made the mistake of underestimating her when he strode into the area and confronted her. Now though, it’s clear that he realizes what all animals know deep down in their bones. Never provoke a mother. Their power is directly correlated to the danger their child is in at that moment. Melissa might as well be a black bear whose had her den invaded. After all, Chris’ daughter nearly did kill her son this morning.

“I told you, Melissa.” Chris hisses, his Adams apple bobbing against the blade of Melissa’s knife. “I told you to keep your son away from my daughter.”

Melissa takes a deep breath, pressing the knife just a touch harder into Chris’ neck to watch him flinch. Worry coils in John’s belly, he steps forward with his hands up. A dead mentor isn’t what they need right now. They have enough problems.

“It wasn’t my son who came to your daughter.” Melissa reminds him, her voice icy. “It was Allison, she saved him. And she stayed. So if you’re placing blame on anyone, start with her.”

Chris shakes his head. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you? You knew he wouldn’t last without someone strong like Allison to protect him, so you told him to latch on to her. With his big doe eyes and kicked puppy act. I see right through you.”

“Chris.” John interjects, they both look at him as through they’ve just realized he’s there. “That’s not what you want to do, you really don’t what to provoke her right now. Melissa, he’s not worth it.”

Melissa shakes her head, Chris’ hands curl into fists at his sides. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Scott. But he makes his own choices. He doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He doesn’t latch on to people just to use them.”

“No.” Chris sighs, pinning John with a cold stare. “He has Stiles to do that for him. Do you think he’ll let that Isaac kid live once the full moon goes down? I don’t. I think he’s gonna be bait.”

It flips a switch in John, one that he’s kept a tight hold on for the last 20 years. He hasn’t felt his vision go red like this since the last time he fought for his life in the arena. Melissa actually lets go of Chris as John advances, his hands curling in the other man’s shirt.

Chris makes a satisfying grunt when John slams him into the opposite wall of the small space. He hears voices over the din, coming towards the room. There isn’t much time. Peacekeepers must be coming to break them up.

“My son isn’t a monster.” John growls into the Chris’ face. “The real monster is your father.” John lets it sit there in the air. He’s never been one to use words as a weapon. Stiles already had that going for him. But Chris’ reaction is comparable to if John had sucker punched him.

Chris goes white, sagging against the wall. “How?” His voice is barely a whisper.

“I do a lot of reading.” John says, shoving the other man away just as the peacekeepers throw open the doors and advance into the room. 

The woman who steps into John’s space is the same one John remembers from the day they had to pull him off of Derek in the training center. She’s dressed in a gleaming white Peacekeeper uniform, her helmet nowhere to be seen unlike the rest of her squad standing behind her.

“Chris.” Her voice betrays nothing of their relationship. If anything, she sounds bored. “How did I know it would be you when I got the call there was a disturbance in the mentor’s chambers?”

Melissa steps forward, looking every bit the sweet mother who might offer someone a cookie. The dagger that had been in her hand’s disappeared. “What disturbance?” She asks, voice high pitched and skeptical.

Kate looks around the wreck of the place with a raised eyebrow. She rolls her eyes. “Well, it certainly looks like there’s been a struggle here. Perhaps we should make sure that the mentors are separated for the remainder of the Games. We wouldn’t want any of you getting distracted from each other.”

John shrugs, “I knocked some things off my desk. It’s not a big deal. You probably have way more to worry about than a couple of clumsy mentors.”

“If we’re you’re biggest concern in Panem then things must be going spectacularly right now.” Chris chimes in, setting his jaw at the end of his sentence.

“You know what,” Kate says, her lips curling into a smile. “You’re right. I’ll just leave you to the clean up in here then.” She chuckles, planting a hand on Chris’ shoulder as she turns and begins to walk away. “You have a lovely day, I think we’ll finally be seeing some action in the Games tonight.” Her eye squint, focused on the desk for a moment. “She’s pretty, has her mother’s eyes.”

Kate turns, leaving them in the silence she leaves in her wake. On the screen, Allison throws her head back and laughs so hard at something that her eyes crinkle up around the edges.

\----------

There’s a tension building in Stiles. At first it feels like a fluttering in his stomach as dusk sets in. Then it becomes his heart pounding in his chest so hard he can hear it in his ears. Every crack of a twig breaking or the rushing sound of leaves blowing on the ground might as well be the soft stalking of paws or sharp teeth mashing together in the forest.

Isaac’s eyes are huge and very blue as Stiles packs up his bag for the night. The other boy watched, knees drawn up to his chin as Stiles carefully lays out the rest of the mountain ash, the sprayer or wolfsbane and his knife before him.

“You should go.” Stiles says, nodding at Isaac. Stiles takes a smaller portion of the mountain ash he’s put into a square of the sleeping bag material, holding it out to the other boy. “Take this. This way you’ll be able to block off the opening to the cave when you make it back. You know, in case.”

“In case you don’t make it out alive?” Isaac asks, cocking his head to the side.

“To put it bluntly, yeah.” Stiles says. The feeling of his pulse pounding in his neck makes him feel jumpy. Isaac looking at him like if he blinks Stiles will disappear isn’t helping much either. “That was the deal. You helped me set this up, I get rid of the Hales and I’m no longer in your debt for saving my life or whatever.”

“I already owed you.” Isaac protests softly.

Stiles pins him a look that clearly says he won’t hear it from the other boy. He thinks briefly that if he had a brother, it would probably be like having Isaac around. It’s equal parts being worried for the other boy and annoyed at how earnest he can be sometimes. Stiles hopes it doesn’t get Isaac killed, that if he should it, he won’t see it coming. He hopes Isaac won’t suffer.

Hopes it won’t be Stiles who he ends up with in the end. Stiles doesn’t want to have to betray whatever trust they’ve built over the last few days.

“You should go.” Stiles says instead of a couple other things. Namely he wants to thank Isaac for all that he’s done for Stiles. He wants to tell him that he deserved an actual home where he didn’t have to fear for his life. He deserves more than ending up in the Games because his dad was a victor years and years ago. None of them deserve it.

Isaac shakes his head minutely, biting his bottom lip like he’s going to stand up t o Stiles.

“You’re going to need me.” Isaac says, strength lining his words. He’s so different from the boy Stiles met in training. “You can’t tie knots for shit.”

“That’s why I had you set up the snare.” Stiles sighs, standing up and pulling the straps of his backpack over his shoulders. It’s really getting dark now. Above them silver stars are twinkling in the night’s sky.

The anthem begins to play, the crest of Panem flashes up in the sky. Only one death so far today, and it’s a young girl Stiles doesn’t remember much of from training. He feels a pang of guilt because this is a life that’s gone. It’s not just some passing story he’s hearing on the news. She died miles away form Stiles and he has no idea how it happened. Did she suffer for too long from having no food and water? Was there someone who came upon her like Isaac had done for Stiles? Only instead of nursing her back to life, had they snapped her neck?

“Seriously.” Stiles says, trying to keep all of the softness out of his voice. It’ll be better in the long run to sever this partnership as cleanly as possible. “Isaac, I don’t need your help anymore.”

Isaac chuckles once, rolling his eyes as he stands. He takes a moment to wipe the dirt from his backside. The look he pins Stiles with is harsh and wide-eyed. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Get out of here Isaac.” Stiles says, keeping his shoulders straight. He reaches back, placing one hand on his hip near where the knife is strapped to his belt.

“You need my help.” Isaac insists again.

“I don’t.” Stiles argues. “Go home. This is the end of whatever this was for us. You don’t want to run into me again after tonight. Final warning.”

Isaac takes a deep breath. He lets it out on a sigh. “You’re a real asshole, Stiles.”

And that’s just how it ends. There’s no goodbyes or handshakes. Isaac turns and starts walking into the dense forest surrounding them. Within seconds he’s disappeared into the inky darkness. Stiles stays where he is, head cocked to the side as the other boy’s footsteps get fainter and fainter.

Then it’s only Stiles standing alone. A strange feeling washes over him at the fact that he’s now by himself for the first time in days. Being alone now feels like abandonment after days in the cave with Isaac hashing out their plan. His head gives a faint pang, his side throbs in time with his heartbeat. Without Isaac there to distract him with conversation, there’s nothing to help Stiles ignore the pain his body’s still in from its injuries.

Stiles is okay with putting himself in life-threatening danger. But should things go wrong, he wouldn’t want to be the one who lead Isaac directly into the jaws of whatever creatures are lurking out there right now.

Stiles doesn’t know what it’s like for a Mutt to be exposed to the moon, if it calls to them or lowers whatever wall separates them from the base of their animal nature. Whatever it is, Stiles thinks it might be working a bit on him as well. There’s a thrumming of energy in his body that makes his skin tingle and his palms sweat.

Empirically he knows he should be terrified right now. Instead he feels like he used to as a child running races against the other kids in school. It’s like he’s back on the tarmac in 12, one knee on the ground, hands braced on either side to push off the ground with everything he has when the bell goes off.

Stiles starts walking back towards the house absently. It’s more of a waiting game right now than anything else. He thinks about how he used to run around in the dark when he was a kid and it would scare him thinking about what could lurk in the shadow. If that version of himself could only see him now. Younger Stiles would probably punch him in the groin area for being so careless with his life.

Younger Stiles doesn’t know what it’s like be pitted against 23 other people in the Hunger Games though.

On their first night in the Capitol (it might as well be years ago) his dad told him to just be himself and that would get him through the Games. Stiles has weighed this decision over and over. The sad fact might be that he is being himself right now. By the end of the night he could perhaps have the blood of two of his fellow tributes on his hands.

What if that’s just who he is in the end?

Stiles spent so much time back home living in his mother’s shadow and then as his father’s caretaker. He never really got the chance to figure out who he was independent of them.

This honestly could be what’s at his core—someone who could plot and plan for the end of someone else’s life.

The moon is bright white above his head now, casting a glow over the giant trees and underbrush. The world becomes a strange monotone with no real color, just black shadows and bright white highlights from the moon. Stiles’ pulse jumps in his throat at the sudden sound of footsteps in the growth coming from the East, the part of the arena Stiles hasn’t seen yet.

Stiles hoists himself up into the nearest tree, tucking his body in close to the trunk, making no noise except for the soft sound of his breathing.

Two sets of feet crash through the leaves covering the ground, making so much noise Stiles think’s they’ve given up completely on sneaking. Perhaps a chase then?

The pair it seems is coming straight towards Stiles, his heart catches in his throat when they get close enough for Stiles to see that it’s a boy and a girl by their silhouettes. Neither is chasing the other it seems, their hands are joined as the boy runs a bit faster than the girl, dragging her behind him in his haste to get away.

They pass directly under Stiles tree when a beam of moonlight falls over the two of them, catching the strawberry blonde hair of the smaller figure. Stiles nearly calls out when he realizes that it’s Lydia and the boy from 4 with the dimples. David? Darcy? Darvid? Danny.

He knew they were still alive, but where’s Jackson? Last time Stiles saw them in the training center it looked pretty much like they’d formed a group. If they’re running from something, maybe Jackson didn’t run fast enough.

Stiles gulps, listening to the pair tear through the woods at a breakneck pace. He stays where he is just in case whoever is chasing them comes by. But after a few minutes there’s nothing except some birds in a nest up high tittering as they fly away.

He climbs down as carefully as possible, hardly disturbing the leaves when his feet touch the ground. Stiles can feel his pulse pounding in his throat. It’s a stark reminder that people are fighting for their lives tonight.

It’s quiet again all too soon for Stiles liking.

Minutes pass as Stiles walks around aimlessly, always keeping the house at the center of the circuit he’s making.

Maybe this was a stupid idea. He’s put so much time and energy into this plan it would be such a joke if he spent the whole night working himself into exhaustion for nothing.

But then a sound cuts through the darkness in a way that makes the birds and bugs go silent out of what might be respect or fear. A high, groaning howl somewhere to the south and then seconds later an answer comes from the north, much closer than Stiles might have expected.

All of the hair on the back of his neck stands on end as Stiles takes off in the direction of the closer howl.

Stiles runs as fast as he can through the darkness, towards the second howl. He stumbles in some places, bashes his shoulders in trees on either side when he can’t judge their distance away. He’s aware of the pain in an absent kind of way, focused instead on running a straight path toward his goal.

He comes to a halt all of a sudden when another howl sounds, the first still from the south and the answer sounds farther away. Stiles can’t risk letting it get away.

He needs to up his game. It won’t be enough to try to catch up to whichever of the Hales is closer. He needs them to chase him back towards the house or this has all been for nothing.

Wolves are predators. For this to work Stiles needs to become prey.

He reaches for the knife at his belt before the thought is even fully formed in his brain. Something inside of him is taking over out of self-preservation. Stiles draws the knife down his forearm in one long, smooth motion. Pain flairs fiery across his skin and then the feeling of warm blood spreading over his skin shocks him.

The coppery scent of blood fills the air even to Stiles less sophisticated senses. A breeze picks that perfect moment to brush past him, traveling from where he is at the top of the hill to the valley below.

It takes far less time that Stiles had expected for a reaction. Seconds later an earsplitting howl echoes all around him, so much louder and impassioned than it had been before.

Stiles feels it deep in his bones that this must be a call to hunt, that he’s truly placed himself in the Hales once again, perhaps for the last time ever.

Stiles plows through the woods on legs that are numb to the burning his muscles should be feeling. His side is still sore from his fall, it should protest sharply at the way Stiles is now punishing his body as he runs towards the old house in the clearing.

Somehow over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears be hears the soft sound of feet padding against the ground behind him. His pulse picks up even more as Stiles realizes that the sound of the approaching wolf is growing louder. As fast as Stiles is running, whoever is chasing him is clearly gaining.

Another howl sounds, Stiles feels it all the way down his body from how close it is. If there’s an answer from the other pursuer, Stiles doesn’t even register it. His shoulder hits a branch and knocks him to the side, he sees behind him for the first time.

It’s Cora tearing through the woods behind him. Her amber eyes twin points of light in the darkness. It makes Stiles stomach clench and coil as he throws himself back towards the house.

He has to be coming up on it now, Stiles thinks. Unless he’s somehow run past it, put too much pressure on his mind to remember exactly where it fell in the arena.

His thoughts become racing and frantic things. Stiles clutched at them as they flit past in his mind, each one becoming more panicked than the last.

He’s gasping when he finally breaks through the tree line and repeats the roll forward that had nearly knocked him out on his first day in the arena. Stiles ends up sprawled on his back for a single second as Cora’s abnormally swift strides sound closer and closer.

This is it, Stiles thinks. He pushes himself up off the ground, chancing a look behind him. She’s feet away, one hand outstretched for him, claws glinting in the moonlight. Stiles ducks away from her arm and goes for the house just like he visualized over and over again when he and Isaac worked out the plan together.

Cora’s growls follow Stiles as he makes for the front steps, his feet make a sharp pounding sound on the rotting wood of the porch. Stiles ducks to the right on his way through the door, pushing it open so that once he passes through the rope Isaac rigged falls free from it’s hiding place.

Stiles is too scared to look back once he’s stepped into the total darkness of the once beautiful house. Cora’s footsteps follow his own up the steps and through the doorway.

There’s a cry and then the sharp sound of the rope tightening around her neck. Cora’s footfalls end abruptly. Stiles feels his stomach drop as he turns around to survey his work. Cora struggles against the rope tightened around her neck like an animal caught in a trap. Already Sties sees black veins spreading from where he skin makes contact with the rope as she sags.

Her eyes are a fierce looking amber on a face that’s more animal than human. He’s never seen Cora in this form before, with her pointed ears and fangs. She opens her mouth and lets out a warbling howl of pain.

Success, Stiles thinks from is place in the darkness staring at the girl. Wolves signal their location to the rest of the pack with their howls. Right now she’s sending up a flare to wherever Derek is in the arena. Derek, being the protective older brother who would do anything in order to see his sister be the victor of these Games will come running.

He’s played right into Stiles’ hands.

Derek’s been blinded by love. 

Stiles stands in the darkness of the abandoned house, finds himself smiling when a frantic sounding noise sounds from the woods in reply to Cora’s cries.

One of the floorboards creaks to Stiles right a fraction of a second before a bright pain flares at the back of his head where he injured himself falling from the tree. Stiles crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, his vision going white around the edges. He feels paralyzed by the pain rattling around in his head.

“Won’t let you get yourself killed.” Isaac growls, grasping for purchase of Stiles’ wrists.

Stiles’ mouth falls open in shock, words of argument trying to form in his mouth, but nothing’s coming out. Isaac drags him out of the back of the house and down the back steps, past the line of mountain ash surrounding the house. There’s a pile of brush at the base of a tree. Isaac throws Stiles atop it and then covers him with more branches, effectively hiding him.

Stiles tries to protest when Isaac reaches down, batting away his hands with ease. “Shut up, unless you want to get both of us killed.” Isaac says, pressing his face close to Stiles. He pulls Stiles knife from his belt along with the sprayer of wolfsbane. 

“Don’t.” Stiles groans, his voice comes out little more than a whisper. Isaac kneels down next to him, looking at him fondly.

“After this I won’t owe you anymore. I promise. Just stay.” Isaac says, covering Stiles back up with the branches. Of course he remembers just how weak Stiles had been after he hit his head the first time. Isaac’s the one who nursed him back to health. And now it looks like he’s using that knowledge to his advantage, putting himself in Stiles’ place for the last part of the plan.

Cora’s still crying out inside the house, and there’s growling coming from somewhere nearby. Derek’s coming to save his sister.

From a place to Stiles right a dark shape tears through the clearing towards the house, blue eyes flashing. Stiles nearly calls out to him from is place on the ground. He needs to stop this before it gets Isaac killed.

Derek prowls towards the house, doesn’t even look in Stiles’ direction when he passes. He crosses the grass, walks up to the back door of the house and strolls inside. Something happens that Stiles can’t see. There’s a crash and more yelling from what sounds like Derek. Then a strange glowing light flashes from the line of mountain ash around the house. Isaac must have completed the circle out front.

Isaac stays out of sight though. There’s no sign of him for a moment. Stiles lays there motionless in the darkness.

Then Isaac distinctly cries out and somehow Stiles is trying to rise to his feet. His stomach coils and he vomits from the effort. Head spinning, Stiles manages to stand up and staggers towards the front of the house along the tree line. There in the front yard Derek’s sprawled in the grass, his face turning black from the spider web veins under his skin, clutching at his throat like Scott had done when his throat closed up back in the Capitol. Only, Isaac’s there beside him, holding his face where a sharply purple bruise is forming.

Stiles nearly falls over when he sees them standing there right outside the circle around the house, Ennis and Kali smirking at Isaac like he’s prey.

There’s nothing stopping them from crossing over the line and going to the other boy, Stiles stays in the shadows near the trees, watching.

Deucalion steps forward from the trees as calm as anything, a small figure at his side. They’re too far away for Stiles to see who it is with him. Deucalion stops where the two enforcers from his group are waiting behind the line.

“You and I have business, Isaac.” Deucalion says. “Where is he?”

Isaac, clutching at his cheek, says nothing. He does spit a bit of blood in the direction of the four people standing before the large house. Beside him, Derek’s still clutching at his neck, struggling for breath. He and Cora are sufficiently incapacitated it seems. Stiles has done his job all too well. There’s no way that Isaac can take on Ennis, Kali, Deucalion and whoever it is with him.

The smaller figure next to Deucalion points at the line on the ground with a small hand. “This is his work, we know you were working together.” Her voice is soft like the wind when she speaks. Stiles recognizes it instantly.

How could he not? They grew up next door to each other their whole lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is!!!!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I hate to leave things in the middle of the action, but it seemed appropriate here!
> 
> I love kudos and feedback! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!!!


	18. Chapter 18

Turns out, there are still things in the world can shock Stiles. Heather standing at the side of Deucalion hits him right at his core and knocks the wind right out of him as if he’s physically been punched.

Stiles clutches at the tree to his right. It’s the only thing holding him up. Between Isaac’s well-meaning blow to the back of his head and seeing his childhood friend has joined forces with Deucalion’s group, he feels completely disarmed. Running a few miles from Cora probably hadn’t helped.

Either way there are two options before Stiles.

1) He could walk away, content in the knowledge that Ennis and Kali will surly kill Derek and Cora in their weakened states. Stiles is amazed that they haven’t tried that already. Isaac left Stiles in a heap near the back of the house, to his knowledge that’s where Stiles still is. He could have a lead on Deucalion’s group, take that time to regroup and recover. It would mean he’d get to see daylight once again. Derek and Cora would be dead. So would Isaac.

2) He could stay and do something. Something that could go wrong in the end potentially. Because even though there’s only going to be one victor in these Games, Stiles is going to play them on his own terms or not at all. But if he stays this could be it. He and Isaac might not even make it out alive in the end.

Would it be worth it to know that he at least fought for something that mattered? Better that than to die a coward.

He’s never been fond of bullies anyway.

Once more into the fray.

Stiles melts backwards into the trees, into the shadows as easy as anything.

He runs a ways away out of necessity for the next step in the fledgling plan that’s beginning to form in his brain.

This morning when Stiles and Isaac had set off, they took a moment to carefully empty the small amount of wolfsbane into the sprayer. Only Stiles had made the mistake of filling it with too much liquid. There wasn’t enough room left for all of the purple powder that Stiles had gathered. Isaac had told him to leave it out, keep it in case of emergency. Now it's in his backpack along with the rest of his meager possessions. 

What remains is barely a tablespoon when Stiles dumps it into his hand, and looks like even less when he takes a match to the handful. It lights up in a puff of smoke, burning his hand for a moment before settling into a fine grey powder. Stiles doesn’t question it, he just runs back towards the house after wrapping it back up.

Stiles sneaks up the back steps and through the door. The rope coiled over the lintel of the front door has snapped at some point during Cora’s struggles. She lays on the ground in a heap, her nails dragging into the floorboards as she struggles towards where her brother is collapsed on the ground of the front yard. For the most part she's still laying over the threshold of the doorway.

Stiles carefully creeps along the wall until he's standing with his back against the front wall of the house, out of sight inside the house but close enough to speak to Cora.

"Where is he, Isaac?" Deucalion asks, his voice echoing through the clearing. Why he hasn't unleashed Ennis and Kali on the other boy baffles Stiles.

"I told you! I don't know where Stiles is." Isaac lies through his teeth. He sounds like his face might be swelling from the place where he was punched in the jaw.

"Cora." Stiles says, kneeling down. He keeps his voice so low that it carries away with hardly a sound. He worries that she hasn't heard him until the girl recoils on the ground in reaction. Stiles reaches out a hand in the shadows and touches Cora's leg where her knee bends. "Stop it. I'm not here to hurt you."

Cora can't speak to reply. But she does sigh in a dramatic way that makes Stiles think that she might be rolling her eyes in Classic Hale fashion.

"Okay. So I might have orchestrated this plan to kill you and your brother." Stiles says lowly in the darkness. "But if you give me a hand right now, I think we can find a way to make it out of this more or less intact."

Cora's hand appears in the darkness before him, palm facing upward, waiting. Stiles carefully rests his hand in her smaller one, his heart pounding forcefully in his chest. Her skin is cool and clammy in the chill of the night air. Her fingers curl around his hand slowly and then squeeze in a way that Stiles interprets as agreement.

"I've got something that will cure you." Stiles says, taking his hand away to get it from his bag. "I don't think they'll cross the mountain ash line to come in here. Not with you and Derek still alive. So this is going to have to happen pretty quickly. I'll give you the antidote, remove the rope and that's when we'll run forward. I'll give Derek the rest of the antidote and break the mountain ash line. Then you two will have free reign to do whatever you have to do."

Stiles doesn't mention that this means Derek and Cora will once again be free to hunt Stiles at their leisure for trying to kill them. That's a problem for future Stiles.

"If you won't tell us where he is on your own, perhaps we'll have to apply a little force." Deucalion says, "Take him." he says to one of his enforcers, Stiles doesn't know which one.

Isaac cries out as there's the sound of a struggle. Someone's crossed over the line. This is their opportunity. Stiles steps out of the shadows in a fluid movement, leaning over Cora so that he can blow the wolfsbane powder in her face. He grasps the rope around her throat and pulls the knot so that the snare loosens around her neck.

She's a whirlwind of movement before anyone has realized what's happened. Her body melts in a matter of seconds into the inky black shape of a slender wolf now pouncing off the front of the porch towards where Stiles can now see Ennis is leaned over the line of mountain ash, dragging Isaac by his arms towards Deucalion. What remains of the girl who'd been laying on the ground incapacitated is a pile of clothing at Stiles feet.

Kali and Cora reach Ennis at the same moment. Cora's powerful jaw clamps around Ennis' breaking the skin and crushing bone in a cracking sound that reverberates loudly. Kali's got both of her arms wrapped around Ennis' chest, trying to pull him back out of the circle. Her sword lays forgotten on the ground beside Heather. Only when Ennis is dragged forward, so is she. They fall in a heap on the ground, half across the line, but that's enough for Cora.

Stiles runs forward. Only now there's so much screaming it's hard to concentrate on what he's supposed to be doing. Heather's suddenly wailing in response to Ennis' deeper cries of pain.

Derek's still laying in the ground, unmoving as chaos dissolves around him. The wet, tearing sounds of Cora's sharp teeth shredding Ennis' arm sounds in the otherwise tranquil looking clearing. Above the moon still shines as brightly and purely as it has all night.

Stiles leans over Derek and blows the powder in his face. The black veins covering Derek's cheeks and temples begin to recede. It reminds Stiles of seeing Peter recovering from the poison dart that Stiles shot him with in training. Derek's face is returning to normal, losing the slackness that Stiles associates with corpses.

Stiles pushes himself backward as a heavy weight lands on his back. A strong arm coils around his throat, pulling so tightly that Stiles finds his vision blurring immediately.

"If I die, you're going with me, kid." Kali spits hatefully in his ear. Stiles smells the coppery tang of blood in the air. Below him Derek's scrambling to his feet, his breathing still wheezy but he's recovering.

Stiles claws at the arm around his throat desperately and in this moment he knows that to the audience he must look like a wild thing. His eyes are huge and glassy, the moon reflected in them. The rosy tint to his skin must be draining out of him as he turns a deathly white.

Derek looks down, seeming to realize what's happening to Stiles. Stiles reaches out a hand, unthinking in this moment as he struggles. He's desperate enough to think for a moment that Derek would help him. Stiles has just spent the last two days planning on how to kill the man.

Derek leans down at the same moment that the weight draped over Stiles back goes slack. He feels something hot gushing over his neck. The smell of blood grows exponentially, so much so that Stiles has the crazed thought that he's been stabbed, that he's been spared the pain by going into shock.

Only the arm around his neck spasms and loosens. The voice that had spoken in his ear lets out a gurgling sigh in his ear and then goes silent.

A cannon fires. Derek's turned his eyes to his sister across the yard as a whimpering cry pierces the night.

He stalks away as the warm weight of the body settles over Stiles' back, pushing him into the bloody grass. He gulps in lungfuls of air like a man pulled onto the deck of a boat upon the brink of drowning.

A pair of hands grasp the body stretched over his back and pull it away, they turn Stiles over so that he's looking up at the gigantic moon above and the curly head of Isaac leaning over him. Isaac's hands are covered in blood, there's some splashed across his clothing, and a streak across his cheek as well. The blade that Jackson meant to kill Stiles is still held in Isaac's hand. Funny how threat on his life has turned into the instrument of his salvation.

"It's not mine." Isaac tells him, dragging him bodily away from where Kali's corpse is laying limply on the ground. Her neck is gaping open from the point that her neck meets jaw on either side in a sick parody of a smile. Her eyes, which should look dead instead are wide open and bright even in death. The light of the moon reflects in them. It sends a chill through Stiles. He hasn't been this close to a dead person since his mom died. But his mother's body hadn't looked like life had been ripped from her. His mother had looked peaceful, like she had left in increments, packing up piece by piece as the neighborhood went to ruin.

Isaac drags Stiles across the lawn as Stiles stares at Derek and Cora silence Ennis' last burbling cries. Stiles feels it like a physical weight's been lifted from his shoulders when the cannon sounds. His eyes drift to the place where Deucalion and Heather once stood. In the chaos they've disappeared into the trees. There's no knowing when they disappeared during the course of the fight.

Stiles sighs as a silence falls over the area once again. Derek's leaning over his sister, his human hands carefully petting across the area on her side where blood is flowing into the black coat of her fur. A flash of silver is still clutched in Ennis' hand where it rests 15 feet away from the rest of his body. The dagger's blade is shining with Cora's blood in the moonlight.

Isaac stumbles back over a molehill in the yarn, falling to the ground and halting their progress away from the house. He makes a small noise as he hits the ground.

Cora growls, her head turning towards the noise. The spell of the silent moment's been broken. Her eyes light up with a cold blue as her hackles rise. Stiles feels his stomach bottom out in that tense moment. No more warm gold eyes from the girl. By killing Ennis she's lost that part of herself. Cora paws at the ground, licking the blood around her muzzle.

Whatever trust Stiles built with her in the house has clearly been lost now that Ennis and Kali are dead.

"Get across the line!" Stiles screams to Isaac. His voice come out as a terrified screech. It's shocking to his own ears, feels like fire in his throat as he yells.

It takes a second for Cora to bound over to him, planting her large paws on his chest and leaning forward with her jaw snapping closed close enough to his throat that he feels her breath on his skin. Stiles closes his eyes because this is it. This is the moment when it all ends for him. He hopes Isaac made it over the line. If he did, he should probably be running for his life now.

Stiles whimpers as terror rises in him, turning his body hot and cold in dramatic turns.  
When he opens his eyes Cora's still poised on his chest, her muzzle buried in his neck. But Derek's standing over both of them, one hand on the back of his sister's neck clutching at the fur there like a cat about to pluck a kitten off the ground with her teeth. He's telling her to hold off Stiles realizes.

He needs some kind of offer, some way to give Derek a reason to let him live. He reaches out a hand, not towards Cora to try to defend himself. The line of mountain ash is cool and dry under his fingertips. Stiles closes his hand around the powder laying in the grass and scatters it to the wind, breaking the circle.

Stiles feels the energy change all around him as the circle of energy keeping Derek and Cora inside is broken. It's like a wall of air hitting all of them, static laced wind similar to the feeling of a thunderstorm gathering in the area.

Derek's head quirks to the side, his eyes lighting up blue. Stiles stays utterly still with Cora's razor-sharp canines millimeters from his carotid artery. He can feel himself shivering against the fear like he's suddenly been plunged into freezing water when Derek reaches forward with his free hand.

Stiles finds it hard to breathe when the older man's hand touches the thin skin of his neck, still tacky with Kali's blood. Derek's fingertips trip over his pulse point, trailing downwards across the delicate skin of his neck. They stop finally when they touch the collar of his jacket. Stiles sees Derek's heavy eyebrows come together in consideration, like he's suddenly curious.

He stays like that for a minute that might stretch into hours, absolutely still except for where his thumb is rubbing in a circle on the material of his jacket's collar. Something like recognition lights up in his piercing eyes and he recoils away, his hand leaving Stiles.

Stiles shudders against the ground as he realizes that Derek pulling away probably means that he's leaving Cora to rip out his throat. Only Derek still has his hand buried his sister's fur, he pulls her a bit away. She lets him.

Stiles stays absolutely still on the ground as Derek turns away from him, stripping off his shirt in the moonlight. In the white light his skin stands out sharply like it's made from ground diamonds except for the place between his shoulder blades where a symbol curls in three black lines. Derek's body melts gracefully to the ground, his muscles restructuring themselves as his body turns into a wolf before Stiles eyes.

It's not the torturous shift that Stiles has sometimes seen before in the arena when wolves go from human to animal from one second to the next. There isn't the sound of flesh tearing as it remakes itself.

If anything, its kind of fascinating. It reminds Stiles of watching a butterfly struggle out of its cocoon, beating its bloody wings in the air before finally flying away, transformed. How do they know how to fly when they've spent their whole lives on the ground, preparing for this moment?

Derek's pants fall to the ground, empty as their former owner falls forward onto four paws. He's a few heads taller than his sister like this, his body more heavily muscled, his fur is the same black color. Except when Derek turns his head to where Cora's still poised over Stiles, he sees that there's a white diamond of fur in the center of Derek's chest where his heart would be if he was in human form.

The wolf then turns and stares at the house standing empty and torn asunder by fire. He paws the ground as if uneasy, letting out a wallowing little howl that's barely loud enough to reach Stiles. It sounds like someone in pain, like a dog someone brought to his mother with a broken leg. Then Derek goes absolutely still, the fur on his back standing up on end ruffles in the wind. 

Derek's eyes light up blue once more before he takes off into the woods wordlessly, Cora lets out a huff through her nose that clearly implies she's not pleased with this turn of events. She uses Stiles' chest as a springboard to push off against, claws prick Stiles chest painfully, but then she's bounding away, chasing after her brother.

The only thing that betrays their location is the high howl that sounds all across the arena and the answering call seconds later. They're louder than before, more confident more. Hunting, Stiles thinks. That's what they're doing. Stiles wouldn't want to be Deucalion or Heather right now.

"I should listen to you more often." A voice says. Stiles cranes his head from where he still lays on the ground as Isaac emerges from the trees. He does his best to scowl at the other boy.

"You think?" Stiles says, his voice comes out hoarse. It hurts to speak from Kali's arm compressing his throat.

Isaac walks over, kneeling down next to Stiles. "Next time I swear I'll leave you alone when you tell me to go."

Stiles shakes his head. He feels wrung out and completely drained of all energy. He could close his eyes and sleep for years. "Liar."

Isaac chuckles, shrugging. Even with the blood drying brown on his face he still looks a bit like an over excited child with his wide blue eyes and the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles. He killed someone tonight, slit Kali's throat because she tried to kill Stiles. Stiles tries not to dwell on it to much.

"Yeah, well it keeps things interesting, doesn't it?" Isaac asks. Stiles melts against the ground. Above them the sky's beginning to lighten as morning dawns.

"Making me start to think I shouldn't have taken such an interest in traps on the first day of training." Stiles says sarcastically, and then regrets it. Not because Isaac frowns, the other boy's smile widens if anything. But it feels like his throat's been grated by rocks and gravel.

Isaac shrugs. "We should get you cleaned up. You look like the floor of a slaughter house."

Stiles sighs and lets Isaac pull him up from the ground. His head's still vaguely spinning and it's hard to control his own limbs. But together they make their way slowly away from the remains of the strange house in the clearing so that the hovercrafts can collect the bodies of Kali and Ennis.

Isaac drops Stiles down next to a small spring-fed pool as the birds begin to wake up in their nests. Stiles sits there with his back against a tree. Isaac pulls Stiles' backpack from his shoulders and begins to go through it.

"Aha." Isaac says, smirking as he draws a plastic tube from the bottom of Stiles' bag. Stiles snaps at the other boy and points at the object. He isn't keen on the idea of speaking right now. "It's a water filter." Isaac says, leaning over the pond and drinking from it with the tube like it's a straw in a gigantic glass of water. "Standard Peacekeeper gear for when they go on missions through the woods. Search and rescue. Or rather, search and capture."

Stiles nods, feeling wary. He struggles agains the sleeves of his jacket, trying to draw it off of his body, but it's soaked with blood and sticks to his shirt. Stiles feels like he might throw up from the smell alone. When he has the jacket off, he throws it away from himself with all his energy, but it only lands a few feet away.

"We'll get you something to eat, and then you can sleep. Okay?" Isaac asks. Stiles nods silently. Staring down at his red hands and forearms. He knows it's not his blood. But the reason it's been spilled is still his fault. Ennis and Kali are both dead because of his plan.

Stiles closes his eyes against the prickling feeling of tears gathering. And it's ridiculous because they were going to kill him and Isaac if they were given the smallest chance. They were under Deucalion's thumb. The pair weren't just two tributes that Stiles stumbled upon in the woods and murdered before they could try to kill him.

But they were still people. They were in the same position as Stiles. They grew up in homes where their parents or guardians were victors. All of them related to killers. Stiles might not have held the knife or been in control of Cora and Derek, but he played a major part in their deaths.

Even if they were standing in for Derek and Cora. Hadn't that been the point of this night? Two deaths just like he planned. Looking at it now Stiles feels an overwhelming sense of shame coiling through his body. He's told himself so many times that he could do it, he could kill someone if it meant that he got to live.

Turns out that telling yourself something and feeling blood soak into your clothing are two completely different things.

Stiles lets Isaac bring him water and food, he eats it numbly, staring forward at the way his jacket's crumpled in a ball on the ground. The whole collar of it's stained a gross rusty color even on top of the black color. He reaches forwards, holding it in his hands as he feels his chest get tighter and tighter.

There, still on the lapel of his jacket is the pin his father put there moments before he entered the arena. There's blood staining the edges of its surface, but the top is still gleaming, the blood's been wiped away.

Stiles remembers Derek's hand so close to his face and the confusion of what he had been doing. He'd looked so intent with his thumb rubbing a circle into something Stiles had been too scared to worry about. Now Stiles knows exactly what it was.

Derek was wiping the blood from the gleaming surface of the gold pin.

Stiles remembers the image of Derek standing in the moonlight on the cusp of shifting. It's amazing what a memory can capture that the brain didn't have time to notice while it was happening.

As the moon had highlighted the powerful muscles of Derek's back, it had also shown in stark relief the tattoo between his shoulder blades. Stiles has seen that symbol before. He'd been too angry to really register it when Derek had stalked away, shirtless in the room with the chariots. But now he knows exactly what it is.

It's the same triple spiral joined in the center that Stiles has pinned to the collar of his jacket. The triskelion.

What could Derek Hale and Stiles have so much in common that they have the same symbol on their person at all times?


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So have a new chapter!
> 
> Also, I was on Tumblr and saw some awesome Hunger Games inspired TW art roll across my dash!
> 
> So I was inspired to create a Tumblr where I'll be posting things that inspire me that look like The Victor's Heir universe!
> 
> The art I'm talking about was posted by the really talented Derphale! It was a total coincidence that we lined up on which districts Derek, Stiles, Allison, and Scott would be from! Check her out!
> 
> http://helloredblazer.tumblr.com/
> 
> Above is the link to my Tumblr. I don't know how to make it an actual link. If anyone knows how to do that, I would really appreciate you telling me in the comments. Hopefully I'll be posting there more as I find things that inspire me! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter. It's a bit different than the ones I've posted before!

Stiles has checked out. After what happened last night, Isaac doesn’t blame him. Still, if 12 years living in a house with a maniac has taught Isaac anything, it’s how to be quiet. Stiles sits with his back against a tree, staring into the sprawling forest while Isaac sets about gathering them water for the day. Isaac’s content to let Stiles have his time with his mental breakdown or whatever’s happening while he works on clearing out the backpack of the useless debris they’ve picked up along the way.

After Isaac’s spends a good half hour laying everything out in neat lines on the ground before him, he packs it all back away, making sure to fit everything important like the sleeping bag and wolfsbane at the top. He turns to the other boy then. Stiles is still sitting, wide-eyed against the tree with his jacket in his hand, clutching at the gold pin attached to the collar.

Isaac can’t be sure, because he hasn’t seen his reflection since the Capitol, but judging by Stiles’ pretty horrifying appearance, he’s pretty sure he looks like he’s been dragged through the woods for days at a time. In particular, his scalp feels gritty and his usually unmanageable hair is falling limp under the weight of dirt and grease. There’s been dirt under Isaac’s fingernails for days. He never thought he would miss his home back in 3, but right now it’s a pretty close thing.

He mostly misses the bathtub.

“You can’t keep walking around like that.” Isaac says in Stiles’ direction. Stiles is generally a bloody mess. Though that’s mostly Isaac’s fault more than his own. The other boy’s whole neck is stained with blood turning a rusty brown color from oxidation. But it’s not just that. There are splashes of it in his hair and a harsh crimson line across his cheek where arterial spray landed.

Stiles doesn’t answer. Isaac snaps a hand in front of is face. Stiles bats it away without much force, not making contact. Well at least he’s not completely broken. He let Isaac give him food and water half an hour ago. He looks like he could really just fall asleep right now. Isaac could too. But he’s not all that fond of the idea of passing out so close to the house less than a mile away.

Isaac takes Stiles’ limp hand in his own, bringing he wet sleeve of his own jacket to the boy’s skin. Stiles continues to stare down at his other hand where he’s clutching his jacket, or to be more specific, his token.

“You’re not broken or anything? Are you?” Isaac asks, wiping the blood from the palm of Stiles’ hand with his jacket sleeve. Stiles throws him serious side-eye. It’s really only impaired by the fact that he looks like he’s about to pass out. “Okay. Just making sure. I didn’t want to have to do that—to her. It just happened.”

Stiles nods, clearing his throat. There’s a line of red and purple around his throat. Maybe talking hurts too much. Or maybe Stiles is just sick of having to encourage him all the time. It probably gets frustrating, being stuck with Isaac all the time. To think that Stiles was free from him for a few hours last night, only to have him return.

The other boy punches Isaac’s shoulder, knocking him out of his thoughts. When Isaac meet’s Stiles’ eyes, they’re narrowed. “Shut up in there.” Stiles says, but his voice comes out more as a growl than anything.

Isaac nods.

Maybe Stiles doubts himself too sometimes. Though, considering how well he’s been doing in the Games so far, Isaac doesn’t know what he’s worrying about. If it weren’t for Stiles, Isaac would still be back in his cave. Ennis and Kali would still be alive, on the hunt for tributes to kill. It probably would have only been a matter of time before they came for him.

It’s not just that Isaac wants to pay Stiles back for everything with his dad. That’s long past him at this point. He won’t say it, but Isaac’s scared of being on his own again. He’s had more of a taste of friendship in the last few days than he had for his entire life. And it’s because of Stiles, who somehow saw potential in a silent kid covered in bruises.

So if that means putting himself in danger over and over as a part of Stiles divine plan to get himself out alive, Isaac will go along with it.

Killing someone hadn’t been as bad as he thought. Not when it’s someone who’s obviously trying to murder a friend. Isaac had felt justified and powerful in a strange way that he’d never felt before. He wonders briefly if his dad had been watching the broadcast last night. Was he surprised that his son had it in him? Probably not. He would have called Isaac cowardly for what he did, attacking someone with their back turned on him.

Isaac likes to think of it more as a tactical move rather than cowardice.

Stiles lets Isaac wipe most of the blood from his face and neck with the sleeve of his jacket. Isaac wonders if the other boy is formulating the rest of his plan for Derek and Cora now that the house isn’t an option. Isaac’s pretty comfortable being the hands that carry out the work of whatever Stiles’ mind supplies. It makes him feel useful, needed for something other than a punching bag.

Isaac washes his hands in the cool water of the small spring, red melting away from his skin under the current. But when he pulls his hands up above the water, they still feel like there’s blood drying tacky on his skin. He scrubs at his hands over and over for the next few minutes. They’re just as clean as they were when he pulls them above the surface, but he feels more secure in the knowledge that it’s just him that he’s looking down at and not the woman who died last night.

Their clothes are filthy, particularly Stiles’. It won’t do them any good if Derek or Cora can track them down just because they still reek of that charcoal house and the coppery tang of blood.

Isaac pulls the sleeping bag from the pack and spreads it out on the ground, keeping watch over the area as he does so. There’s nothing indicating that there are any other tributes in the area. Still, it doesn’t hurt to be a little hyper-vigilant.

Stiles pulls away when Isaac reaches to take the jacket from his hands. “I’ll give it back.” Isaac argues quietly with the other boy. He reaches forward and detaches the pin from the collar, pulling the jacket away so Stiles is still holding on to the ring of gold. “Give me your shirt too.” Stiles rolls his eyes, huffing as he draws his shirt over his head.

“I seriously pity your parents.” Isaac says absently. “This is what it must have been like to have you home sick as a kid. You’re stubborn as hell but you look like you’re about to pass out.”

Stiles’ only response is to roll his eyes and shake his head in a way that makes Isaac think he’s trying to Isaac’s previous statement.

“Shut up and go to sleep.” Isaac says, nodding at the sleeping bag. “I’ll keep watch.”’

Stiles sighs, but he doesn’t argue. He just curls up under the sleeping bag with his pack under his head. He’s asleep within seconds, his breath evening out as his eyelids flutter.

It’s quiet apart from the gentle burbling of the spring and the wind blowing through the trees. His whole life, Isaac lived in the center of a sprawling complex of factories and laboratories. He’s pretty sure that the point of Victors Village is that they’re supposed to get a reprieve from whatever work they’d usually be doing, but the minds of 3 are far too valuable. Each of the homes is equipped with its own lab and complicated computer systems for running equations.

Isaac hadn’t seen a tree in real life until his train ride through the Capitol. Those had been the ornamental kind planted in pots and trimmed into the shape of fantastic animals. Those were nothing like the giant monsters growing all around him, taller than all of the buildings back home, full of life.

Here there isn’t the claustrophobic feeling of buildings pressing in on every side. This place gives Isaac the feeling that the world truly does extend in every direction in a practically limitless expanse.

Isaac looks over at Stiles sleeping like a rock a few feet away. Isaac’s made it far longer than he ever expected in the Games. His dad had joked that Isaac’s best bet would have been to jump off his platform before it was allowed and hope that it took out some of the other kids with him. 

He hopes wherever his dad is, he’s being forced to watch this. Because seeing Isaac thrive in the arena would probably be the best possible way to torture him.

So yeah, he’s going to live as long as he can to spite his dad. And if he dies, then he dies. But at least it will be for something that matters.

A scream rings out through the arena. Stiles bolts awake.

\-----------

The last person that Melissa expects to pull her into a darkened closet in the hall outside the mentor’s quarters is Tara Martin.

And yet that’s exactly where she finds herself in the aftermath of what’s probably one of the most stressful and most watched broadcasts in the history of the Games.

“Tell John that son of his needs to call it quits on this feud he has with the Hales.” Tara hisses in Melissa’s face. Melissa balls her hands up by her sides and delivers a quick rabbit punch to the other woman’s side, knocking the wind out of her. She may have been out of the arena for years at this point, but that instinct to fight rather than flee has never left her.

Tara stumbles backwards, clutching her side and hissing. “I’m not threatening you! Melissa, there’s something else. And if you want to see your son make it out of these Games alive, he’s gonna need all the help he can get.”

Melissa keeps her hands raised to defend herself as Tara pulls a tablet out of her bag and turns it around. On the screen is a blurry image, of Tara’s daughter and the boy from District 4 running through the dark woods. Melissa vaguely remembers a short shot cutting to the two last night, but it had happened before the drama with Stiles had kicked off and hadn’t been referenced again in the chaos of what happened.

“What am I looking at?” Melissa asks skeptically. She’s never been a huge fan of people grabbing her. It’s most of the reason that Scott’s father left so abruptly. But hey, she’d let him keep 8 of his other fingers. If he hadn’t been the father of her child, she probably wouldn’t have been so lenient.

“An abomination.” Tara mutters, flipping the tablet around and tapping a few things on the screen. When she turns it around again, the image is zoomed in on a dark shape in the trees. Melissa holds out her hand, taking the tablet from the other woman. She holds it up, squinting to try to decipher what exactly it is.

Too small to be a bear, too large to be a mountain lion.

It’s nothing but a shape in the darkness, stretched out as it leaps from tree to tree, arms outstretched. Twin pinpricks of yellow show when moonlight reflects in the creature’s eyes.

“It’s a killing machine and if we don’t stop it, it will kill every living thing in that arena. Even the Hales. Especially the Hales.” Tara says, her voice shaking a bit as she speaks.

“But what is it actually?” Melissa says. She’s no stranger to the creatures that have been created for the purpose of killing tributes in the arena. Hell, they’ve been sitting in the same room as Peter Hale for nearly a week. “A Muttation?”

“Yeah. You could say that.” Tara says, rolling her eyes. She looks very much like her daughter in that moment. Fiercely smart and completely over Melissa’s ignorance at the same time. “But not one that the Gamemakers put in the arena on purpose.”

Melissa shakes her head. “Just spit it out, Tara. Quit stalling.”

“It’s Jackson Whitmore.”

Melissa doesn’t wait for that to even sink in. She’s running back to the Mentor’s quarters as fast as her legs can carry her. Inside, nearly half the room is darkened cubicles from the mentors who have been removed once their tributes have died.

John’s sleeping, albeit against his own volition. Melissa drops down and shakes him by the shoulder. He startles awake like he’s been woken by gunshots.

“Is it Stiles?” He asks, eyes wide as he begins scrolling through the various feeds of the cameras.

Melissa stops him with a hand over his larger one. “It’s not.” She says quietly, looking over her shoulder to make sure they’re alone.

John’s eyes grow larger and larger as she explains what’s happened. Together they pull up the feed from last night, from when Lydia and Danny were ambushed at their campsite by a dark shadow that moved like smoke and left four wide slash marks on the canvas of their tent, left abandoned in the middle of the night.

Whatever it was, it chased Lydia and Danny for hours around the arena, until they were staggering on their feet and falling against each other.

“It’s playing with them.” John says, his voice a sandpapery growl. “It’s not loosing speed, it follows them at the same pace, driving them away. It adapts to their speed.”

They watch as the creature continues to chase the pair through a field that turns into the rocky scrabble of the mountains. Melissa and John fast forward through most of the pursuit, until they reach the point that it’s daybreak and light finally shines on the face of the monster that Jackson’s become.

And it is monstrous.

It’s like nothing they’ve ever seen. His face is reptilian, with a flat nose, yellow eyes, and a wide mouth filled with gleaming, sharp teeth. His body is larger than it had been previously; covered in a smooth, scaled skin that’s grey and green. Lydia and Danny stumble together, 20 feet away from the beast. Lydia turns and catches an actual glimpse at their pursuer.

Her eyes turn as large as saucers, and she screams out something unintelligible in her panic.

With their back pressed against the rocky face of the mountain, they have little chance of getting away. And besides that, they’ve both been driven to exhaustion.

The monster approaches with a strong arm outstretched towards them, its claws are inches long and razor sharp. Danny throws his arm around her waist, hauling Lydia behind himself as he too turns and faces the beast. It makes contact with Danny’s chest, ripping his shirt and sending rivets of red blood down his front. Danny drops like a stone in water, his eyes wide and panicked.

Jackson raises his clawed hand once again, preparing to strike Lydia down.

Only, her jaw drops open in a scream so shrill that it somehow overloads the microphones in the area so that everything sounds like static and feedback.

The beast’s hands fly to his head, reptilian face contorting in pain as he drops suddenly to his knees. Like ripples of water in a pool, humanity washes over the boy’s face as he begins transforming back into the image of the handsome tribute he’d been in his training and interviews before all of Panem.

He’s somewhere between the monster and man when he turns and rushes away back into the woods, gone from sight of the cameras.

“What was that?” John asks from behind the hand thrown over his mouth.

Melissa shakes her head, blinking away moisture gathering in her eyes at the image of Lydia sinking to the ground, her hands fluttering over the chest and face of the fallen tribute by her side. Danny’s bright eyes are fluttering in their sockets, bouncing all around his field of vision. But the rest of him doesn’t move apart from his chest rising in increasingly dramatic breath.

“Something that the Capitol doesn’t want the districts to know.” Says a familiar voice from the edge of John’s space. Not for the first time since the Games began, John turns to see Chris Argent standing before him, his face stony. And behind him, Peter Hale’s got one eyebrow raised, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Proof that people like me weren’t created through the power of the Capitol.” Peter says, smirking.

“John, we’d like to talk to you about forming an alliance.” Chris says, though he doesn’t sound pleased at all to be saying the words at all.

John holds his hand up to the other men. “Lets not go that far yet. Your niece tried to kill my son last night.”

Peter sets his jaw, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. 

“Well to be fair, Stiles did try to kill her first.” Melissa says, breaking the awkward silence. They all look at her. She holds up her hands. “Sorry. Mother here. I’m just calling it like I see it.”

John sighs out a laugh. “I’ll do what I can. But only if you tell me what’s really going on here. How did this happen to Jackson.”

Chris looks very pointedly at Peter who once again rolls his eyes in a very put upon manner. “Alright, so I might have had something to do with that.” Chris elbows him. “I may or may not have—“

“Definitely did, actually.” Chris breaks in, sounding like he’s had this conversation more than a few times. “And I only just learned about this last night.” Chris adds as an aside.

“—Acted rashly while in the training center.” Peter sighs, speaking softly so they aren’t overheard. “And ran into Jackson after the incident where the younger Stilinski punched him in the face, humiliating him in front of all the other tributes. And my impulse control problems coupled with the fact that Stiles also got my nephew electrocuted by a power hungry woman with serious issues led to something that I’m not proud of.”

Chris stifles a laugh behind his hand at the last part. He looks a little ashamed about it though.

John holds up a hand. “Please tell me you didn’t make him that way. You didn’t endanger the lives of everyone in the arena because of some petty issue with my son.”

“In my defense,” Peter says, “Your son did poison me only a day later. So I wouldn’t call my issue with him ‘Petty’. Also, how was I supposed to know that he was going to turn out like that?”

\--------

Cora’s head turns abruptly at the noise reverberating through the air so loudly that it rings in her ears. Her jacket forgotten on the ground, she presses her hands to her ears and drops to her knees, not for the first time in the last day inside the burned out shell of the house.

Derek, sitting on the porch lacing up his boots, stands when the sound ends. He’s got one shoe on, Cora notices.

“What was that?” Cora asks, pulling on her coat. She pulls the collar to her face, inhaling. Nothing of the smell embedded in the fabric is familiar. It’s all just ash and smoke.

Derek shakes his head, green eyes fixed on a point far off in the distance where a mountain rises above the rest of the arena. He runs a hand through the front of his hair; it sticks up when he pulls it away, sighing.

“No idea.” Derek says. He shakes his head and quickly pulls on his other shoe. “Nothing good I would imagine.”

“Jackson?” Cora asks, suppressing the urge to shudder at just how much their uncle’s plan of introducing a new beta into the Games would help them. They hadn’t been able to find him last night for his first shift.

“It wasn’t animal.” Derek says. “Nothing I’ve ever heard before. Come on. We’ll find someplace to bunk down for a bit.”

Cora nods, feeling like her bones are made of lead. They haven’t had room to run like that in years. There wasn’t any place in the Capitol for them to really shift. And it was strange to do that in front of people who lived there. They thought it was more of an amusing parlor trick.

She hadn’t felt that alive in years. The full shift wasn’t something she had done since Laura had been reaped. Still, it happened as easily as anything aided by the fear she’d felt watching Derek struggle on the ground before her.

On her way out the door she presses her hand to the doorframe, patting it awkwardly.

“Come on, loser.” Cora says, knocking into Derek’s shoulder after she jumps down from the porch. “I’m starving.”

Derek shakes his head. “We’re gonna have a talk about you taking off after that kid last night. You’re starting to remind me of Peter.”

“Take that back or I’ll kill you myself.”

They leave the clearing where the skeleton of a house stands just from sheer force of will, stubborn just like the family who called it home for years. There’s soot lingering on Cora’s fingertips and a matching mark on the doorframe where her fingers made contact right above a notch made in the wood.

And though it’s been 6 years and fire has worn away nearly everything recognizable about this place, that mark remains. Not just one, but a few dozen marking the lives of Talia, Peter, Derek, Laura, Elliot, Cora, and Prudence. Her father’s neat handwriting used to label each one from their childhood.

Halfway up the doorframe she knows her last recorded mark must be somewhere in the mess of ruined woof. Somewhere it shows how tall she was at 9, so eager to take a trip with her brother and uncle to the Capitol.

The next time she saw the house, it had been engulfed in flames and her childhood as she knew it had been over.

No time for that now. There’s no room for the past. Derek slings an arm across her shoulder in a protective older brother gesture he usually shies away from in public. Cora closes her eyes for a minute just to remind herself of reality.

This place isn’t the playground she remembers from her childhood. The lake a mile to the north where Laura and Derek painstakingly carved a clubhouse into the earth at the base of a tree isn’t the oasis they pretended it was. The meadow they used to play tag in will now forever be the place where four tributes died at the Cornucopia.

That place isn’t home anymore.

Home’s where you feel safe. And Derek, he’s always protected her. Home is wherever he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. Shifting viewpoints! Lemme know in the comments if you like them or if they're weird.
> 
> Anyway. I am totally trying to move the story along a lot faster that I had originally planned. It's kinda easy for me to just meander along without realizing that it's been chapters since something happened!
> 
> Also, I'm totally aware that I did that thing where I disappeared for a month without posting. But I had things going on IRL, and I've been working on another fic. It's a 21 Jump Street/Never Been Kissed AU where Stiles goes undercover at Beacon Hills 10 years after graduation to try to get to the bottom of their sports team's sudden success. So check that out if you're looking for something kind of random and a little bit strange.
> 
> As always. I love Kudos and really hearing what you guys think about the fic in the comments section. That always gives me a much better idea how it's being received. I do usually try to reply to all of the comments with what my thought process was. Or a bit of a hint as to what is going to happen next.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

The scream cuts through the early morning air like a knife, piercing the silence and echoing off the rock wall and overhang surrounding Scott and Allison.

Scott bolts upright, pain flashing through his leg where his wound is slowly trying to heal. Allison’s already crouched beside him. Without taking her eyes off of the ledge before them she reaches out and touches his knee, quieting him. Her other hand is on the long knife she got from the body of the tribute who tried to kill Scott. It’s still strange to see it in her hands and know that it was originally meant to kill him.

But Allison’s full of surprises and his time with her has been incredibly unpredictable.

“Stay here.” Allison says. Her brown eyes flick over her shoulder at Scott before she stands, going for her bow.

Scott tries to get to his own feet, his heart beating a wild rhythm in his chest. “No. I’m coming too.”

Allison pins him with a look, particularly at the place where she’s tied one of her jacket sleeves around his leg to stem the flow of blood. He’s still not steady on his feet. “Scott, you’re not well enough to climb back up the mountain.”

“I’m stronger than I look.” Scott argues, reaching for the long stick Allison found to help him get around. “And you’re not leaving me alone up here. What if someone finds me?”

Allison sighs. “Fine. Just stay behind me. And if anything happens, you hide. Alright? I don’t want any of that hero crap, I can handle myself.”

Scott nods enthusiastically. Allison is kind of wildly hot when she’s aggressive and protective. Right now she looks almost nothing like the girl he first saw in her chariot with her long dark hair laying in a silky sheet over her shoulders and her face made up to look like porcelain. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun and there are streaks of dirt across her face.

She’s prettier this way, Scott thinks. She looks more at home out here than she did in the training center. This way they both have the Capitol washed from them.

Allison rolls her eyes at him and hands him the knife, slinging her bow and arrows over her shoulder. Together they make their way carefully down the mountain. Scott has trouble finding his footing on the steep downgrade. Allison grabs his hand and puts it on her shoulder as she walks ahead of him, keeping her steps absolutely silent.

They advance down the mountain, away from the high vantage point that Allison’s been very proud of for the last few days. Any change in scenery at this point is enough to make Scott nervous. He feels like danger could come at him from any direction.

Allison holds up a fist in what Scott’s just going to assume is a command for them to stop since she kind of crouches and cocks her head to the side. Scott stays where he is since crouching isn’t in the near future for him with his leg being the way it is. She looks back at him over her shoulder, slowly lowering her bow arm so that she can press one finger to her lips.

She gives him a very intense look that Scott’s pretty sure is supposed to be threatening, but instead is just too sexy for words. Not the time or the place for that, though. Scott nods, holding up a hand in an ‘okay’ gesture.

There are sounds of a struggle around the corner of the stone wall that makes up the base of the mountain. Scott cocks his head to the side and distinctly hears a girl’s sniffling.

Allison moves in one fluid movement around the corner, her bow drawn. Scott ambles behind her, poking his head around the corner to see what’s made the noise, if it’s the source of the scream.

The girl on the ground hasn’t noticed Allison yet. She’s too concerned with pressing her hands over a wound to the chest of the boy on the ground before her. Only instead of familiar, red blood, her hands are black with a viscous liquid that makes Scott’s stomach go uneasy.

The girl’s head whips around, finally catching sight of Allison. Quick as a flash, she has a silver knife in her hand, drawn back to fire.

“Allison.” The girl says. Her eyes are wide and panicked looking. Scott’s unsure if this means she’s the one who injured the boy before her, or if she found him this way.

“Lydia.” Allison responds, in a tone that Scott might describe as steely. Back at the training center, Scott remembers seeing Allison and Lydia together, albeit incredibly briefly.

Both girls seem to be at a standoff, while the men with them are incapacitated. The handsome boy from 4 on the ground and half draped over Lydia’s lap looks like he’s in pretty terrible shape.

“Any chance of a truce?” Lydia asks, raising an eyebrow. Her voice is more of a croak than anything. The hand she has raised with the knife is shaking. She’s a pretty girl, looking a lot worse for wear. There are twigs in her hair and a few scratches on her face.

“That depends on you.” Allison says. It sends a chill down Scott’s spine to know that the girl who Scott thought was rather sweet during training is the same person who killed someone right before Scott’s eyes.

“I need protection. Danny needs medical attention. We’ve spent the last 7 hours running for our lives from something—someone.” Lydia says, her face keeps draining of color.

“Yeah,” Allison asks, intrigued. “Who? The Hales?” Scott notices that she spits out the name.

“Jackson.” Lydia responds. Danny makes a pathetic sound. “Like the Hales, but different.”

Now it’s Allison’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Well, that’s certainly a surprise. I thought we were only going to have to deal with two Mutts in the games.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “If you want to kill them, want a real chance at it. I have something that you’re gonna need. And if you kill me, you’ll never get it.”

Allison sighs. “So what, I’m just supposed to trust you? I’m supposed to believe that you have something that will help me end the Hales and the Whitmore kid?”

“I want him gone.” Lydia says, “That Hales I could care less about. It seems they want nothing to do with Danny and I. But Jackson, gone for sure.”

“I’ll bite.” Allison says, lowering her bow a tiny bit. “An alliance on the terms that you give me what I need to stop the Hales, of I’ll kill you. If you try to hurt Scott, I’ll kill you. If you—“

“Let me guess, you’ll kill me?” Lydia asked sarcastically. “Spare me the threats and help me carry him?” She motioned to Danny’s unmoving form.”

“First tell me what it is that I apparently need so badly.” Allison says, keeping her bow drawn.

Lydia, looking like she’s pretty much ready to drop, lowers her knife and sighs. “My voice. Once I figure out how to use it again.”

Allison must know what this means, because she lowers her bow as well.

It can’t be that easy. Not to form an alliance that might get them one step closer to the end, Scott thinks. Though, he’s unsure what it will mean for Allison and he to be nearing the end of the Games. One Victor can make it out alive.

Scott thinks that Allison would deserve it considering her skills, and the compassion she showed him. He thinks that the crown on her head would make her look like a warrior princess.

Its just a shame he won’t be there to see it.

\----------

Alan Deaton keeps his eyes locked on the display before him with a red dot marking the location of each tribute in the games. It’s rude, considering the guest in his office. But at Gamemaker, it’s his job to stay as up to date as possible on the actions happening in the arena.

“This has gone on long enough.” The man before him says. His voice is the same gruff tone that he uses to address the whole of Panem. Hearing it now in his office is even more startling. “I want these little groups obliterated, scattered to the wind. I want to see what you promised me. I want District vs. District. I want blood, and I want those Mutts gone.”

Deaton raises an eyebrow, his eyes briefly flicker over to the place where the Hales have stopped, near the edge of the arena. Deaton spent the whole night watching practically all of the tributes scatter across the playing field as the night progressed. And somehow, like ships passing thought the night, there hadn’t been any more casualties other than Ennis and Kali.

Mutts chasing tributes. Tributes running for their lives. Three transformations by the light of the full moon. An event broadcast is there’s ever been one. The Gamemaker in him knows the only thing that could make it better is if it hadn’t happened in the middle of the night, when most of the population was asleep. Never mind that. It was being cut together by a team in the other room for the recap airing that evening.

“The Whitmore situation isn’t something that we foresaw.” Deaton explains, “The bite was administered by an alpha—“ Deaton neglects to restate his argument that having Peter Hale meander around the Training Center unguarded was a huge mistake. “in an unmonitored part of the Training Center.”

President Silver narrows his eyes, “I don’t care how it happened. Least the boy could have done was kill Martin and the boy. He just played with them.”

“Sir,” Deaton says, “Believe me when I tell you that I have something in mind. We’ve run simulations and the results will be spectacular.”

“Good.” Silver nods his grizzled head. Only, the word coming from his lips feels like the total opposite of good. “I want these games ended within the week.”

Deaton agrees. Any more than a week and they’ll be running on fumes. It’s so much more entertaining to have many tributes rather an one or two trying to pick each other off for days on end.

“You’re still sure about the girl?” Deaton asks.

Silver pushes himself up from the chair across from Deaton’s desk. “Do me a favor and don’t ever ask me if I’m sure of anything, ever again.”

Deaton nods his head to the other man, standing as is only polite when the president is about to leave.

When Silver is gone, the smell of monkshood still lingers in the office. Deaton flicks through his notes on the tablet in his hands, back to the date of his initial planning meeting with Silver.

There they had outlined the names of the Tributes to be selected, apart from 12 where their options were completely limited. There, at the top of the sheet, a red circle had been drawn around a single name.

Silver had been certain that if he was going to allow children and wards of former Victors into the games, he was going to control who it was that made it out alive in the end.

For all that Deaton and the rest of Panem saw Silver as a ruthless man masquerading as a benevolent protector, it was rare that he showed his cards to anyone.

But blood proved the strongest motivator the day that Silver had decided that not only would his only grandchild enter the Hunger Games. But that she would also come out as the Victor. And even Deaton couldn’t predict what would happen once Silver had her in the Capitol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'm trying really hard to get back to working on this story. I know I left you all hanging for a long time. and I apologize.
> 
> I'd like to have this fic wrapped up within a few months. Thanks for all the awesome comments and kudos!
> 
> Sidenote: Comments asking me to update make me feel really uncomfortable. Believe me when I say that I want to update. I really do. But I also work 2 jobs, 6 days a week. And I don't get paid to do this. I will not respond to these comments. Just know that I'm working on things, and I would much rather see your thoughts about what is going on in the fic rather than these kinds of comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Constructive feedback much appreciated!
> 
> Now with fancy art by the lovely Derphale!!!
> 
> http://derphale.tumblr.com/tagged/hunger-games-au


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